GRIEF Poem: Where Our Daughter Wound Aches, by B.R. Jayne

1.
I mourn a story with her sweet beginning
speckled with pollen, her flower apron bowed
gentle breeze swaying a field of creation
mother besides her, where the daughter wound ached
torn from a womb in her final moments of safety
she can only chase it as a stranger

2.
Some myths say she went willingly
climbed into darkened chariot
black wood of bone filed and stained in its breathing
pelvis wretched open, pulled out the reins
She knew it was a mother’s body
one she was forced into again
How can I describe the horror
the desecration of a holy place?
Some myths say the cross was forged
from skin and flesh of the most sacred
Virgin mother, arms spread wide, legs bound
to receive her only son
Do you think the myths say
he went willingly?

3.
How starved a woman
forced to submit must be
To break open vile pomegranate seeds
crushed by spoiled teeth coating crowns
with saccharine defeat, a man watching
He told me to force myself
I told him not to use that word
An ugly thing, force
Bereft of any kindness, a might with no master
A man with no humanity
Wielding the pointed end of a broken rib
Like death was something to be feared

4.
Our endings are yet untold
though rot infects from generations before
It eats away at our lungs slowly,
mild hunger never satiated
No mourning for the quiet destruction, the once beautiful
unable to appease any longer
A slight dirt-speck dignity, to die from disease spread
by a mother’s daughter wound aching

Author: poetryfest

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