P O E T R Y
M O T H E R
by Callie L.
Water of the earth
The break before birth
She whispers in waves
Unfurling
She is the vine that binds
The red threaded lines
Into labour of
Sowing
And yearning
Forebearer, mourning and
Eve
She ripples
And streams into spring
Oceans twirling
Small fingers
Curling
The little one begins to sing
“We wax and wane and then we wait”
This is mother’s lullaby
Only instinct is here
Surrounding soprano
Within every howl and wolf cry
Primal, the dwelling place
A secret
Ingrained in instinct
Warm in her floret-woven braid
Womb is how we first learned home
Crimson and marrow in every bone
A garden enclosed,
She waits
And with each month, she anticipates
Through every strain, stretch and belly-ache
When will birth respond?
The roar of her, awake?
The final sting of delivery
It is merely a mystery
And yet - it is only the cusp that cuts into the beginning
For in all living
We are pushing
Dying
To be born
And die again
In waters bleeding open
The message still unspoken
Mother
. . .
The cord is never broken.