The Mourn

a poem about the emotional trauma of hysterectomy

grayscale photo of woman right hand on glass

https://unsplash.com/photos/nwWUBsW6ud4



in time, eggs drop
as they may
a crimson furnace burns
waits for them
then rejects even
the idea of babies

babies that refuse to be bound
and tear their way out
leaving you
to your stitches

these eggs, they stay now…
where are they to go?
a furnace burnt out
removed scoop by scoop
fleshy tumors in a pan

I am not ashamed that
I screamed at God.

who would now mourn
these tiny keepers of
life? I must say I,
and I alone.

no more fat and bald
purple-plump and wet
wan cries erupting
gurgle and shriek
announce,
I am alive
I am alive

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Domestic Abuse on a Good Friday

20 Years ago today was the worst day of my life

https://www.pexels.com/photo/adult-black-and-white-body-dark-271418/

Twenty years ago today was the worst day of my life.

Three days later as I stood in church with my children I remember very clearly a few things:

  • My throat was damaged from being choked and I could not sing the hymns. I could barely speak in a hoarse voice.
  • My children, two small boys, were wearing their suits; I do not remember who got their suits out of the closet, ironed them, or got them dressed.
  • My hair was very short; I always cut my hair when I got upset or had been abused to the point of hating myself and wanting to punish myself.
  • Strange things were happening; people appeared in front of me and it surprised or frightened me. I suddenly would realize where I was without knowing I was there. Blocks of time seemed to be missing. I learned later at the hospital that I had a concussion. When the kind doctor tried to feel my neck I completely freaked out and had to be sedated.

The events of the abuse that night before Good Friday are so fresh in my mind that I could recount them to you in great detail even now, 20 years later. 20 years ago today I went to work in a dazed, traumatized stupor and took my lunch break to drive to the courthouse to get a 50-B restraining order against my husband (now ex-husband.)

“I need to have my husband removed from my home and get a restraining order. (insert details of attack here.)” said a devastated and nearly destroyed me.

“But where will he live?” the lady asked me.

–things you should NEVER say to an abuse victim.

I have been diagnosed with PTSD.

The diagnosis came 18 years later.

Enough about the worst day of my life, the details of which I carry inside my gut like shards of glass…I want to share with you the poem I wrote about that day in church 20 years ago, with my two boys, both also traumatized, standing next to me. I have sometimes used poetry as a healing force in my life and this was perhaps the most important poem I have ever written. I very rarely share it. But with Easter Day looming, my memories get the better of me and I find myself wrestling with the inner turmoil all over again, no matter how much distance is put between me and that day. Here is the poem:

Three Days After

Three days ago
I heard you screaming.

I crawled through darkness
to find you.

Today I heard you
singing hymns that save
and lift me off the floor.

I don’t have to crawl anymore.

I stand
in the rising of
my Savior.

Lift your eyes my son,
flowers grow from crosses
everyday.

We don’t have to cry anymore.

If you or anyone you know is suffering from Domestic Violence, help is available to you. There IS HOPE. https://www.thehotline.org/


Sorrow, A Poem of Mystery that will leave you wanting more…

Sorrow

Skipping stone bouncing across your surface
A tearing pain no one can see
You scream out toward the distance
Stretching out from between your knees

Why can’t anyone hear the baby crying?
Standing red-faced, hands over rail
Knuckles gone white from gripping
One long, steep unending wail

She wasn’t there the night before
Out tramping through the woods alone
She can’t hear the baby anymore
Out searching for stepping stones.

One last argument bent her backwards
One last tearing apart of her nails
One last long sorrow will be hers
When the baby falls over the rail.

I hope you have enjoyed this, my newest poem “Sorrow,” which I wrote while the bath water was running…because sometimes, you just have to POEM. 🙂 Weird too, because I rarely rhyme in my poetry. Well, the poem tells me, I don’t tell it how to be. One thing I love about writing is that I never know where it is leading me. I am along for the journey and I love that.

If you enjoyed this….you may also like:
https://fiddleheadsnfloss.com/2019/02/15/gone-a-poem/
https://fiddleheadsnfloss.com/2019/02/22/desperately-seeking-oblivion/
https://fiddleheadsnfloss.com/2019/02/13/dust/