A yawning, mawing emptiness that lies inside her without rest That pulls away at every thread, that leaves her sick and full of dread. With every step she takes in life, through love and loss, through pain and strife, she yearns to fill the void inside, to plant herself before the tide. The man she sleeps beside in bed with charming words and roses red. Though patient much, he cannot win. He cannot touch the depth within. The boy and girl, her love runs deep and yet they fail to see her weep. They fail to see the beating drum that beats inside their loving mum. And though the hugs and kisses leave a feel of warmth, a small reprieve, the tide is never far away for happy feelings never stay. The friend will always save her seat to laugh and rant each time they meet. The darkness then is kept at bay, the tide receding for a day. But as her confidence will dip, her lovely smile leaves her lip. The hollow feeling makes …

Dearest mother, I’ve fallen in and out of love more times than I can gather And where have you been through it all? dearest love, sincerest mother Breasts I once clung to But was never allowed to tether Dearest mother, mommy, please Where have you been? Nudged from the nest ‘Cause you thought indulgent affection was a sin So I learned to fly and never to crawl Never to be weak and on my knees, Never given permission to bawl Where have you been? Through it all. Mother Not just a noun, but a verb Beloved mother, Be loved. If not by me then please, Lord, by another. I pray by me, one day, Concurrent mother and daughter. Image by Juarte Cesnaite Thanks for reading! If you enjoy Raising Mothers, please consider making a one-time or recurring contribution to help us remain ad-free. If even a fraction of subscribers signed up to contribute $1 per month, Raising Mothers could be self-sustaining!

Standing in front of the mirror facing my own wilted reflection I’m practicing what to say to get you admitted to convince the doctor both that you don’t want to live and that your life is worth saving. I make my list of evidence knowing that it will probably not be enough, so in spite of my exhaustion, my terror, my extraordinary stage fright, in spite of the fact that all I want is to hold my child until I know she is safe, I work on my theatre. Why is it that without hesitation, we always go to the ER when our bones splinter and break, when there is strange or unusual pain, or when our lungs clench like a fist? We trust that we will be mended or saved if we can be. Today I bring you to the ER hoping to convince someone with the power to save you that although your body is in tact you are not                you are breaking you are filled with …

This morning. At 6:55am. A womxn, black was executed. After dropping Her child off at his workplace, A mothasistah was accosted. Six hours and fifty-five minutes after midnight, The morn opened up and dimmed in shame at the annihilation of an already Ripped soul. This morning. A sista’ – In aisle 5 for rice and soup – Compared products for the most natural quinoa and kale mix Acme could offer. Her focus was abrubtly Interrupted by loud laughter gruff voices and spirited flirting wrapped in buttermilk intonations of carefree-isms that only paled colonizers could enjoy – If only that sister knew. Knew that the hardfloored food shop Faintly transmitting Barry Manilow lullabyes Was to quickly turn into a fight of wills where she would be Defeated. Defaced. Dismantled. Damaged. Declined. Denied. Destroyed. Yes, at 6:55 in the morning, When lovers pleasure in fleshy hors d’oeuvres And babies cry out for rescue And sister matriarchs adjust their hats for morning service, Willie Lynch’s grandson – Juneteenth times removed – walked down aisle 5 where An unsuspecting …

I love my mother I will love her forever I think. She is the only – mostly the first not the only, but what difference does it make She is the only (first) woman to be love and pain and Discipline and fun and wonder and knowledge to me. For me, she was once life or death And every time she chose me, life for me, life with me I can’t help but love her for that She was the woman who taught me to love myself. My skin. My mind. To celebrate all that made me, me. Because she celebrated all in her. She taught me to love my blackness “it’s brown” she said “because it is the colour of The earth and my skin” The first poet For that, I’m grateful beyond repair She is love In every way, with hugs and kisses With meals and cups of tea With smiles and frowns The love of something deep, strong, true To give and to love. Me, my blackness, all I could be She …