For days I spent researching the ways I could coax my period to perform its dance in my knickers.
It was that red that wouldn’t bleed for the loss of a life,
but for preservation of my own,
it wouldn’t be a mourning, but a celebration
Is that the mark of a mother?
And then my head would liaise with all my maternal organs and flatter them into believing that they never wanted new life,
which would only stretch them and bend them in unimaginable ways;
their youth would surely be lost.
So I hurried about with cranberry juice now running through my veins and hot water bottles nestling my womb,
begging for release, the blood, the shifts.
I wanted so badly to mourn, to weep, to pain for the lack of child
But suddenly I was no longer nurturing the blood from an empty womb but nurturing the baby inside who nestled gratefully against kind warmth,
I imagine she smiled inside me, unknowing that the very instrument that caused her comfort,
was the very instrument I meant to celebrate her loss,
is that the mark of a mother?