Born Hearts Upside Down
Home birth sounds so
Homey! Sweet! Safe from fear!
What a welcome, to bouncing baby
Who will arrive through legs, in arms, home
I knew you were a boy.
But if you weren’t,
I’d name you Jubilee Ruth
If you ever transition,
Or get a baby, or dog of your own
I hope you use it
Like I knew you’d be Raoul,
If your dad didn’t shoot that down
Now your dog who grows with you
Is named your name
I called you, as you grew in
My layered bubble belly
We made you in a tent
Glen Rose, Texas: Dinosaur Valley
We were married
Day before you erupted on the scene
After the courthouse
We sat at Lucia eating delicious pastas
In decadent celebratory union,
Belly dancing with strange unfamiliar hardness
Glass jeweled silk headband
Crowned brown curls from my father
Summer cream lace dress to my toes
Concert sized beach ball at middle
Memories of pretend pregnancies
Balloons at parties under our shirts
“Look how big the baby is!”
Running around mom’s legs to make her laugh
“Y’all better not think I’m raisin’ yours,
You four are enough…”
Memories of how I cried in bed
Won’t my line ever learn
To keep our legs closed?
Staring at my partner
“This is a
good thing
This is wonderful
It’s okay. It’s going to be okay”
Looking at double beating lines
heart closed into itself
Compact mirrored fate
Generation after generation
Lost hopes for bachelor’s degrees
Dropped
Memories
The dreams
Of my mother
Lost to childbirth,
Exhaustion
And the ever-elusive dollar
A woman at the table
next to ours said, “You are so brave...”
I chuckled thanks, in confusion,
Eating what I would regret in forthcoming labor
Next dawn, sitting on an exercise ball
Pains spiking at interval
In cool sweat anticipation
I began to realize what she’d meant.
When I called her,
the midwife said she
Didn’t think I was actually in labor
I told her I was, so she sent a nurse
Never had met her, she began to monitor and report
with phony delicate tone I knew all too well:
A caretaker’s avoidant nonchalance, and
Bearer of unsettling news
You would need to be born
At the “birthing center”
Not at home, the center of our world
Our connection: wrapped around your neck
Each contraction,
Your heart rate decelerated
Last stretch to the finish line:
paved in barbed wire
Checking water balloon sack
Again, after only moments before
Intensifying tension
on your dewdrop cocoon
I feel a nail drive into the tissue
Popping, “Oops….
You’ll have this baby
in the hospital”
Brows of dew on sweating forehead
Clamp down, tightening
Woodworker’s vice grip
I do as I am told, through
Encouraging words
Through beeps and stickers, through screams
more of my own: “Fuck you”
And I vomit over and over
Because the smell of shit
Because the pain, because the shame from
Feeling angelic nurse wiping
my rank, blossoming ass, stranger no longer
Plastic cap on mouth
Rubbermaid nausea
“He isn’t getting oxygen
You have to wear it”
Carpenter decides on the saw then holds back
I vacillate through wasted gasps for life
“I can’t do it” “get it out” “don’t cut me open”
fears churn, one atop the other
Mother
I want my mother.
This husband I’d had
for one day,
She hated him born the same year as she
She’d stopped talking to me
After a fight we’d had about him and after
the voicemail I left relaying the information that
I was pregnant with his child and I hoped she could accept that but
No call back
And I made my bed
Slept with thrashing child within
Mother I need you so much
And I am sorry
And YOU did this four times
And I have no one who can help me
And I’m surrounded by strangers: curious onlookers
And they want me to stop screaming
And I’m scaring the other women
And I’m terrified
And as I become a mother
I want MY mom
I want my mom
“You aren’t dilating fast enough,
The shears might do it but
You MUST push with
Your entire being during this next contraction”
Said the doctor, trying to
Respect glass-shattering fear
Of major surgery while saving
YOU, my little love
Snip again: snip
legs and body writhing
Burning, freezing,
choking, gushing
Alien emerges
From my open cavity
I fall from the crest of
The tumbling waves, shattered
The deep holds more
Life unknown and I can’t wait to know you
You, who came out with a splash
Leaving a puddle of ashen flesh in your wake
You peed all over everyone
Screaming your own insults
In foreign infant tongue
Your father cried
“I thought you were both going to die”
I didn’t tell him but
I had died
new things were born:
A mother
a grandmother too
Mom took two years
To loosen her guard
We made up
And are closer than ever
Now, when my siblings or I
Say ignorant things that hurt her
I see her with my new eyes,
see her move on with a grace
I still struggle with
She is so used to the pain
That children bring
I smile at her
Understanding
the hell you will put me through
And the hell I will put you through, trying to raise you right
Being a mother
Is a privilege not to be taken lightly
A string drops one heart upside down from another
One day I will grow to be like her
strong, graceful, confident, determined, humble, patient
Woman Mother
I will always be there for you,
Child
Just like my mother is
Even when she isn’t.
-Monika Bowman Bell
Monika Bowman Bell places storytelling and the delicacy of the natural world at the heart of visual, performative, musical and written works. She is board president at Dallas, Texas literary non-profit, WordSpace, is the Arts Track mentor at Dallas Young Makers’ Club at the J. Erik Jonsson Central Library, is in the midst of writing a script for a rock opera titled Old Maid/Lemons and is producing a new body of visual work based on shadows. Bell sings and performs around Dallas in bands, The Stoners and Mad Mother Goblin.