Threshold
She was never alone. She carried other heartbeats within her.
She drifted on a drip of thundercloud,
That turned her world into a lavender haze
And purple telephones rang softly
in the corners of the room.
The hours grew long and strange,
each one folding into the next
like a wave that forgot where shore began.
It rolled and it rolled for twenty-two long hours,
Her body, a shore worn raw by the surges—
and still, the child would not come easy.
The world dimmed and bloomed,
a half-dream of neon saints
and voices that forgot to be kind.
“You must not cry,” one said,
as if tears were a betrayal,
as if pain should be swallowed
for the sake of the small unseen.
But her body knew.
That the strain was good for immunity.
So bones opened like old doors.
She became a bell rung by something ancient,
shaking through the frame of her.
The blue-white angels said numbers
Four, Five, Six, Seven—
Eight brought a new threshold in pain
But it meant she was close to life.
And the rising came—
a cry not of pain,
but of final becoming.
She pushed through shadow
and salt and will,
and split the veil.
The child arrived—
wreathed in breath and blood,
cloaked in the quiet armor
of borrowed antibodies
and fierce maternal flame.
No one speaks of what is left behind:
the body and soul long incised,
stitched with silence,
the ache that lingered.
But the child had her first defense—
the woman who bore her,
who bled for her,
who rose when she was told to break.
A mother always.
A life and passion of her own,
But never faltering in the love
And defense of that which she bore.
#poetry #osxs #motherhood #rachmaninov
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Thank you for coming here and walking through the garden of my mind. No day is as brilliant in its moment as it is gilded in memory. Embrace your experience and relish gorgeous recollection.
Into every life a little light will shine. Thank you for being my luminance in whatever capacity you may. Shine on, you brilliant souls!
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