Motherhood

We mother things into this world all the time.
Humans, I mean.
Be it art, writing, shelter community, children or other
we were born to create
to birth anew
again and again until we die.

There, I almost died
had it not been for my writing
which was neither enjoyable or easy
just necessary.

It, writing, came as a last resort
a response to the lost ability to make visual art
in both hands, no less.
You see I had tried asking both arms to work
and yet they failed me once more.

That is how I found myself here
faulty hands
empty canvas
decent feet
and a working mouth
trying to figure out how to survive.

messy canvas made sense / ink on my toes / and brush between my lips / leaning into adaptation / bent on creation.

I wish I could show 17 year old me this.
I would hold my painting to the light
as confirmation of my ability to remain soft
nothing more and that would be enough.

I wish I could show me all the mothering I have done / what my womb has carried / and what I have decided to birth.