Category: Poetry

How to Handle a Miscarriage

On By JesseIn Grief, Life, Motherhood, Poetry, Thoughts, Writing3 Comments

Step One

Hold very still when you realize what’s happening.
Lest you collapse immediately
and drown in the first wave of grief.

(Or drown here.
If you do choose to wait, there will be other opportunities.)

**Helpful Hint**
When presented with opportunities to drown,
always choose to wait.

Step Two

Tell everyone.

“I have lost someone I never had.
There is nothing to bury but these feelings.
There will be no services.”

Or maybe say nothing
If the weight of even one pitying glance
might push you under
and you aren’t strong enough to come back up.

(Or drown here.
If you do choose to wait, there will be other opportunities.)

Step Three

Go back to work.

If you don’t already have children,
bring your sadness with you in your purse
but don’t take it out.
grieve quietly between the lines of your emails
remember to eat
and smile often
wait until you are in the shower, or in bed at night
to wonder if you are only grieving the child that wasn’t
or if the dream of motherhood altogether
is dead and you just don’t know it yet.

If you do already have children,
grieve quietly,
remember to eat
and smile often
fold your sadness into the clean towels
press it into the pages of bedtime stories
it will always be there
but only you will ever see it.

**Helpful Hint**
Remember, if all else fails, sheer force of will-
will see you through to the next step.

Step Four

Read or let people tell you about why it isn’t your fault.

Then, wonder often if it was something you did or did not do.
Wonder less over time.

(Or, drown here.
If you do choose to wait, there will be other opportunities.)

Step Five

Let people and animals love you.
Ask yourself if it matters whose fault it was.
Either way, the little soul has left
the child is not coming
there is nothing for it but to be sad
and let yourself be loved
until you have the energy to love others again.

**Helpful Hint**
If you hold on long enough,
you will have the energy to love others again.

Step Six

Every once in awhile,
when you are alone, and all is quiet,
reach down down down and so carefully
retrieve the memory
of that sweet soul
only you
ever had the privilege of holding.
And cherish it as
only you
are able–
that precious memory
made entirely of feelings
as invisible as the sweet forehead you’ll never kiss.

I Always Fit

On By JesseIn Life, Poetry, Thoughts, WritingLeave a comment

It’s a glass jar.
I don’t know where it came from.
I was so little
when I found it
and poured myself in–
not safe
so much as separate.

I grew up.
But the jar remains
and I always fit.

I have children now.
And when I’m in it,
they pass back and forth
through the glass
as if by magic
to my surprise and delight.

Nonetheless,
I need to break it.
I know I do.

Pouring yourself into a glass jar
is for frightened children.

And whatever was out there
is always still out there
when I so slowly and so quietly
drip back.

You Should Go

On By JesseIn Life, Motherhood, Poetry, Thoughts, Writing2 Comments

I threw away half of my clothes last week.
Old and ill-fitting
I’m tired of things that don’t fit
but unsure how to take off this
modus operandi
which has become so tight,
It’ll tear if I laugh too hard.

I do know
nothing will change
unless I change it.

So I threw away half of my clothes last week.
It felt so good.
I bought new things
that fit more than my body.

I pulled down all my make-up from
the dark shelf in the bathroom closet.

I put my wallet and lip gloss,
sunglasses and car keys
in my first new purse
since tossing my wallet in a
diaper bag six years ago.

I dragged out my tote full of shoes
I never wear–
yellow heels, butterfly sandals, red satin . . .
I’d forgotten how beautiful they are.

I bought new earrings–
colorful, a little wild, a little ridiculous,
a lot fun
Just the way I used to feel.

I’ve lived here nearly seven years
and my shoes
my colors
my self–
bold, sure,
slightly ridiculous,
considerably optimistic
have been waiting all that time
so quiet, so small.

When my children needed
Motherhood took
more room
then more
still more . . .
There was nothing left
no energy, no time.
She had to go
out of sight
out of mind
so quiet, so patient
until lately.

Lately,
that part of my self
I put away
unable to part with her
even if I had nowhere
to take her anymore.
That part of myself
has grown restless,
has been rattling around
in the totes and closets,
thumping like a tell-tale heart
against locked, plastic lids–
against my own ribcage
whenever I think about changing up
the ratios.

And Motherhood–
that 800 pound gorilla,
who pushed her aside
who packed the totes
who clicked the lids shut
and walked away
with rolled up sleeves
to focus on her work. . .

Motherhood–
the last one I expected . . .

Motherhood just whispered in my heart . . .

“You should go to her.”




Waking up With You

On By JesseIn Life, Love, Poetry, WritingLeave a comment

The morning sun blazes
a burning trail
through tranquil, lowered lids
shattering the night
and my soft sleep.

You see it, too, and
only half awake,
reach through the blankets
the darkness
the hours we walked
through separate dreams . . .

until you find me.

Hands gripping hips
you pull me close
tuck me in
over your shoulder
under your chin
a place I fit so perfectly
the night is whole again.

And, just like every morning,
even (especially?) after all these years
I’ll count leaving your arms
among the hardest things I do today.

Enough pt 2

On By JesseIn Grief, Life, Poetry, Thoughts, WritingLeave a comment

So the container broke

I sifted through

and . . .

it’s all still here.

Well, all of it except

the crippling fear

that these words aren’t worthwhile.

Now, I’m left to wonder

was it really too fragile?

was it truly that it was struck too hard

by some malevolent or careless, outside force?

divine destruction?

self-destruction?

or . . . .

did I simply outgrow it?

Enough pt 1: https://blackinkbirds.com/2022/11/09/enough/

Enough

On By JesseIn Grief, Life, Poetry, Writing2 Comments

I’ve shattered again.

But instead of gluing the pieces back together

I’m sifting through what was in the container

when it broke.

There’s no one here to tell me I’m ready.

No one I can ask if it’s good enough,

if I’ve met the goal

achieved the end.

Just me and all these words

that look like everyone else’s.

All those years

how did I not realize

I was still storing my worth

in the eyes of others?

I am calling it back now.

From every mis-place.

Even if I’m shattered and

have nowhere to put it

yet.

Fall

On By JesseIn Grief, Life, Poetry, Seasons, Writing1 Comment

I’ve decided not to fall this year
Not to leap forward into the unknown
with an open soul
as I have always done.

There’s this anger inside
I’ve been shushing
this fire inside
I’ve been banking.

And Fall has come
with her chill breezes
her crisp apple snap
expecting that I will
rake the words she’s brought with her
into piles on the page and play
as I have always done.

But I’ve been watching the way
the woods catch fire . . .
Every leaf on every tree burning bright
until there’s nothing left
and they flutter away like so much ash.

Yet the tree is not dead.

I don’t want to die or
become someone or something else.

I just . . .
don’t want to think anymore.
Or plan or rest or try or ponder or wish.
I’m tired of insecurity and
this pervading sense
of uncertainty.
I’m tired of hoping despite disappointment
tired of working through it
as I have always done.

I’m tired.

Of everything and everyone
especially myself.
Nothing helps. I’ve tried it all.
Except letting go.
Which I have maybe never done.

So, this time
I’ll take the words
in burning hands
no tidy piles
no time for play
I’ll take the fire from the tree
and let it fly through me
instead of watering it down
I’m going to feed it these feelings
And watch them burn
Until it all flutters away like so much ash . . .

And I can change.

Hair Cut

On By JesseIn Grief, Life, Motherhood, Poetry, WritingLeave a comment

“Your hair!” she exclaimed,
as she pulled up alongside me,
shock and a hint of horror in
her tone and wide-eyes

“I know!” I replied with a practiced, rueful smile
she was not the first and would not be the last to ask
“Why did you cut it?”

In a blink
every truth whipped through me:

We were tired,
my hair and I
straightened out by circumstance
when we were born to be curly.

Like Sampson, I mistook it
for more of me than it was.

I was feeling more like myself than I had in years
but still seeing someone else in the mirror.

Every time I pulled a wad of it out of the drain
I was disturbed anew at how closely
it resembled my thoughts.

My neck was creaking ominously
under the weight
of it–
living life
with so much death–
It had to go
I couldn’t carry it all
not one more moment . . .

“I needed a change.” I replied.

But she’d already seen–
she understood.
Her expression shifted to one of approval.

“It looks good.”
she said.
Then drove away.

A Clear Midnight

On By JesseIn Life, Motherhood, Poetry, Writing3 Comments

I’m off for a weekend completely by myself. Let me type that again: I’m off. For a weekend. Completely by myself. Alone. No one else. Just me and some books and some knitting and some coffee and some wine and my favorite writing utensils. And, of course, my fleece-lined leggings and coziest, fuzzy socks.

When I first planned this little trip, I made a list of goals to complete with all this time to myself. I haven’t been alone for more than a few hours at a time since my five year old was born. I’ve daydreamed about what it would be like to have hours and hours to do so many things. But yesterday, I was starting to make lists of what to pack and I realized I don’t have the mental or physical energy for a to-do list right now. I’m behind on literally everything and everyone I care about, including myself, in a way that a weekend is not going to be able to fix.

I felt pretty disheartened when these thoughts crept in. I have a lot of guilt piled up from all the things I haven’t been able to do, things I haven’t had time or headspace to write, and all the lovely people in my life that I haven’t been able to connect with the way that I want. My cup runneth over with blessings and is somehow empty at the same time–a feeling I’ve become well-acquainted with since becoming a mother.

Then, just as I was setting myself up for a nice, long guilt trip, a favorite poem came softly and gently and quietly to mind. It’s by Walt Whitman and it goes like this:

A Clear Midnight

This is thy hour, O Soul, thy free flight into the wordless
Away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson done
Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing,
pondering the themes thou lovest best
Night, sleep, death, and the stars.

Now, all I hope for the next few days is to step away from lists, away from goals, and to give my soul a free flight into, well, probably not the wordless, my soul really likes words, but you get the idea. : )