Childbirth is the mother of adventure,.
You hear of heavens, rocks and earths
Getting split opened like the mouths of lovelorn soldiers roaring irate,
Vocalic grunts on an harmattan-baked morning.
Childbirth tells squeamish tales:
How the body asphyxiates itself
Into utter disharmony, yelling out in
Arrhythmic intensities as stormy memories
Invade the grey matter.
These memories are memories that wander through deserts,
Drying lakes, pools of hemorrhage,
Scars, fantasy, anger, pain, violation and happiness.
The hips of a woman are legendary,
To the source of creation.
Little wonder why nature prefers
Making them conduits for morning birds
To fly, tweet and welcome sunrise.
If you see a mother tending to her child, bow!
They are conveyors of a realm –
Where blood, grit and darkness meet.
To create a new song:
A song… called Love.
