Weeping From the Womb

Brianna Le / V Mag at UVA

I can’t find my mother, they’ve taken her away, 

So I go to the playground alone every day.

From a rope on the monkeybars, I wish I could sway, 

Because she’ll never come back, as hard as I pray.

That’s what they told her, the nurses in white:

“The Lord will forgive you, if you don’t try to fight.”

“Don’t you know you’re supposed to be his bright light?”

“Hold still— your contractions are alarmingly tight.”

In a frame on my nightstand, I look in her eyes.

They were brown like mine, and shrouded in the guise 

Of a girl who never had a dance in the rain,

Or a carriage ride next to the Grand Central train.

Did she scowl at my face as she took her last breath?

Did she wish that a coat hanger had led to her death?

Mama, come back.

Mama, come home.

My hair can’t be braided,

And I don’t have a comb.

In this chess game they stole a pawn from your womb,

And now my queen lies alone in a tomb. 

So to my “saviors” I say, on this very day,

That by her side is where I wish to lay. 

***

And I hang from this rope, where I promise to pray

For your dissevered souls, and the way they decay,

When wrapped in her arms, I hear her voice say,

“My baby’s come home,

This time to stay.”