Juju the Doula hosted me and some other black wombyn in her heal the womb virtual poetry class [because we’re two years and some change into a world pandemic]. It was 6 PM on a Friday night, there were several of us from the Bay Area, because Juju the Doula is from Oakland, and we were tuned in on time [as she asked of us]. Some even matriculated in as far out as Georgia, Kentucky, and Virginia. We started with a womb word dump and then she posed us these two questions, “what are your wombs like?’ If you could say it was an object, what would it be?”
To which I say,
Stack of Papers
my womb.
is a stack of papers.
from the State.
I only know myself
in the words
i’ve read on these pages
printed and published from 2003
(when the social worker
ceased visits
last report saying
I’d hit the basics. she
no longer needed
to think of me)
to as early 1998
like how one is conditioned
to learn.
oneself.
early on; in report cards.
based on prison records
the things white people say
or- say are worth saying
About you.
my understanding
literally Jumped Up and walked right off the pa
I envy people.
who can raise their hands in class
because their hands deserve to be up [I worry if I don’t speak I look like I
don’t
deserve
to have a seat.]
; pat themselves on the back
and feel surrounded.
seems like
the thing my hands are best at
is gripping my hip bones
kneading nape of my spine
and then diagnosing my womb pain
as having traveled
from my pelvis to my lower back- leaving-a
Permanent ache.
people been tellin’ me
long as i can remember
i got the arch of a young mom.
like i been carrying myself
since birth.
once we tested positive.
and they called my mother.
unfit.
sent me on my lonesome way
away from source
from mother
from womb mama and mama’s womb
from her bosoms
from her inner elbow where my head meant to lay
from my birth name
i’m always searching for my other homes. always thinking i’m
missing someone.
every so often
i crack open my papers
to jog my memory
to hear my mother’s voice
to recognize the sound of my cries
my loneliness
recognize my mother’s eyes
peeking back at me
from between the lines.
i wonder if i apologize
for her indiscretions
will they reveal the rest of myself to me?
but i also curse her father
for breaking-
lines.
his touch sent her to the streets
; late teens trying to snatch her knowing back
bending her spine, pushing her hips out and back
hoping sex by way of the block.
might ground her.
into a happy home.
and i must also curse the State.
for pretending like they don’t know;
crack.
was her way of holding on, resilience.
a gamble.
to which card she pulls first
freedom?
or death?
in, Black Girl, Call Home
Jasmine Man wrote-
mortality and magic occupy the same space
she pulled death.
and I sometimes wish we had cremated my mother
so i
could visit her in a yard,
so we
could have our own conversations
by cloak of privacy
but she is amongst her scorned memories, regrets, mistakes
In my sister’s home
at the behest of all those ears
they admit they feel mostly judgment for her
– understandably so
my womb has a moderately thick file of papers on her from clinics:
…
; tested positive for cocaine.
; tested twice. Six months a part. HIV?
; morbid cramps. Collapsed in shower. Low blood pressure.
; needs birth control. Never took the pills. Too scared doctors’ were downplaying the effects.
An even thicker file
; Post assault. Police. arrive. leave.
having offered nothing.
File thickens again
; post assault. Needs pregnancy test.
; needs UTI test
; needs sleeping pills
my womb-
with every interaction and
non-interaction- becomes
more of a mystery to me
i guess she is love
i’ve discovered her to be
Potent power
she got wet at fear hour to ease the pain
i’m grateful.
the most feminine part of me
must have some hair
the masculine in me
wants to keep it long
if my body could rise up and out like dough
to make space for all this trauma
then i can believe my womb and my girl will in fact one day be able to stretch wide
again
welcome love
endure the trauma of birth
a beauty that will not be denied
This is a story that matters.