Resuscitation
a poem
Note: When reading poetry, don’t pause at the end of each line. Read through as if the line breaks weren’t there. Only pause for punctuation. It’ll make more sense read this way.
Motherhood, to me, was not a stirring up of burning coals igniting compassion for the helpless. Nor was it like planting, watering, and waiting for seeds to sprout fruit-bearers from the black earth. No. Motherhood, to me, was like a soldier’s ribs cracking at compressions to force the lungs full recoil. Pressing needs rythmically repeated pinned me down, in cardiac arrest for six years. In dreams, I saw a soldier hollowed out, unfit to join her squad. In life, I birthed three. My eldest turned seven. Then quarantine hit deep starting a pulse that hurt like hell. Every inhale brought awareness of injuries throughout. Pain incessant. Enemies everywhere. I woke on hostile ground, I and my squad equipped to sight enemies and strike. I hear bones take six to eight weeks to heal. Perhaps, it's years for ribs 'round a heart keeping pace with children's growth.
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Praying for you as you parent your dear children!