I Roar. {A Mother’s Love Poem}
Grateful heart, I roar.
Infant muse, I roar.
Humbled flesh, I bow.
I cling to the reckless anger that I deserve to own this space; to inhabit this pre-birth giddiness and joy, regardless of my other child or my life’s demands—of my heart’s other demands.
I roar.
I pensively bleed in preparation.
I roar.
I tighten and cramp in rehearsal.
I roar.
I sing. I breathe. I meditate while holding my swelling belly in thickly veined hands.
I roar.
I put my foot across the line of appropriate—I dig my heels into this space without fear; without care; without guilt that I’m not staying within the confines of my feminine place.
I roar.
I cartwheel for what tomorrow could bring, I roar.
I crank up the stereo, I roar.
I spin my restless legs with headphones blaring, I roar.
I thump and groove my head to rhythms from tiny earbuds, to big bass and rich voice—I illuminate my heart-space with music.
And I roar.
I feel the pounding, driving need to purge from my life that which I don’t need—those who I don’t need.
I roar.
I collect fragile memories and emotional souvenirs and am reborn as a mother.
I roar.
I spin my legs around the un-moving bicycle as haunting lyrics pierce my goose-bumped soul.
I roar.
I stand in my lioness strength—I pivot around this defining internal shift of muted woman to violent heartbeats, in ready anticipation of bringing another female into this waiting world.
And I roar.
And I roar.
And I quiet.
And I slow.
And my legs stop circling and my heart stops racing and I invite this overwhelming sensation of commanding power to settle within my tender tissues.
And I roar.
I roar.
Photo: Flickr/Rebecca.
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[…] My physical self needs to move and sweat and yawn through my muscles; stretching and howling from within. […]
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