Things I Have Written for Children I Have Yet to, and Will Never, Have

Dec 12th, 2016:

I tell my mother I am not well

She asks if I am pregnant

I say, No, unless a runny nose is a sign of pregnancy.

May 14th, 2018:

It’s four days before my period is due

And my body is telling me that the babies still

won’t come

My womb moves in mysterious ways

Like everywhere and not at all

I am so full of nothing that

Sometimes, I pretend I do not want

To trick God into filling me up.

Sept 25th, 2018 – edit:

I tell my mother I am not well

She asks if I am pregnant, I say, No

Unless a runny nose is a sign of pregnancy

She laughs

I chuckle

She talks

I think

We talk?

I am not here.

Aug 31st, 2021:

If I wasn’t broken, I’d use another word

Like, “capable,” but I am not

And I am grateful.

Feb 22nd, 2022:

I am a hardened shell

Softened in revealing

The yolk inside me

Call me a spill, if

You will, but do not call me

An emptying [place]

My spirit, my own hovering

Mother, teaches me good birth, unclean.

Jan 12th, 2022 – edit:

I imagine a different conversation—

I tell my mother I am not well

She asks if I am pregnant

I say, Yes

I say, It is 2022 and all of the dead are dying

Am I wicked to attempt life at a burial?

She asks, But are you well? I say, No

I have these flowers for my young, their delivery

Will be the funeral I show up to

Just to see them put into the ground

I have prepared the eulogy

I have laid out my best black dress, heels

Perfect for the after-after party

I will hold them tight to my chest, party

Like it’s 1999, because it has always been

She taps my shoulder

She asks my wilting children if they can have this dance

Slips her hand into mine, presses cheek upon mine

She says something about the good times, the meaning of life

Things that remind me of how much I love and resent love

How it is our favorite way to pretend

I press my cheek back into her cheek

Ask my mother if she is well

She says

Sometimes

She says

I am still a hopeful dancer with all these flowers

For my young, cradling you

In the center of a sinking floor.

 Alyesha Wise

 

Foto by Jei Lee

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