Being a Mom During a Genocide
When one child suffers, every mother bleeds
By candlelight,
I usher her forth
like the river to the sea
bury her placenta
under an oak tree.
On holy land, water breaks
where there is none to drink,
life crowns from
stateless wombs
refugees born on rubble
soon to be their tombs.
I bring her to my breast
nipples cracked and sore,
glowing screen in hand,
watching last breaths as
children bleed
in the arms of mothers
who can do nothing
but weep.
When fireworks split the January night
I flinch
each burst a cruel echo
of bombs falling on babies,
tiny lives buried in broken stone,
their names swallowed
by dust
dying alone.
I hold her tiny hand in mine,
while other mothers
kiss fingers
no longer warm.
I lean in just to feel
her soft, warm breath.
Other mothers search
beneath concrete,
press fingers to still chests.
I swaddle my daughter
in white muslin sheets.
Other mothers
hold their cold angels
wrapped in shrouds
destined for the ground.
I kiss my daughter's forehead
as I lay her to sleep.
Other mothers plant
tender, last kisses
before laying their children
to rest at their feet.
My daughter grows,
rosy and fed,
while across the sea,
mothers watch their children
shrink to bone
a famine carved by men
who forgot
they were brothers
and shared
the same mother.
When thunder claps
her eyes open wider
and she holds me tight.
Other mothers sing lullabies
to conceal the hum of drones
circling them at night.
I lift my phone
to catch her coos,
her first awkward steps,
while other mothers
film last breaths—
proof their children lived,
proof they deserved to
before they left.
