My heart is heavy for the mamas
who will lay down to sleep in the stark silence of night
instead of to the rhythm of rocket dreams expelled in tiny whispered breaths.
My arms ache tender for the mamas
who stripped of their loved ones,
no longer feel the holy weight of heaven turned flesh against their breast.
they are undone
for these weeping mothers.
We stand united
our bodies, the concave of sanctuary make
for our weary kind.
We bend our heads in shared grief
pouring love onto the battered,
grasping hands to bear the weight of it all.
Rest your head against me,
let me crouch low to cup your face.
we will not forsake you.
For we are all one. We are all broken.
We were born of other generations,
fighter women who knew their name.
We were born inside covered wagons,
and far off places that no one yet called home.
We were born of tall swinging grass,
that sway to protect their seeds.
We were born of women's suffrage,
of equality, and expansion of rights.
We were born of rocky hillsides,
our place in birthing rooms, and graveyards.
We were born along the seaside,
our busts planking the starboard side.
We were born in hours spent
scrubbing kitchen floors, over pots at rolling boils.
We are born of divine strength and fire,
cultivating through our words, generations to come.
We are born of mighty bloodlines,
of wanderers, and the Appalachia's too.
We are born brave anointed daughters,
called to a love that's bold and free.
We are born our moxie showing,
our jaws set and hearts steady, true.
born of grit and grace.
—Tara Pohlkotte, Appleton, WI