Valerie Wen
What was it that fully fashioned your belly
to an extent where clothes can no longer have shape
but must be fabric flapping formless in a breeze,
hiding a slowly forming human who knows nothing
of clothes, of color, of shape,
knowing only shades of light and sounds
that the knowledgeable ones describe like a vacuum cleaner,
a machine whirring away
picking up dust and dirt,
which is not what a womb does,
are not the sounds we make.
Say it sounds like adults in a Peanuts movie
tromboning away in a fashion that may almost be
musical, melodic, rhythmic,
our voices, our hearts being described as more than a dirt machine.
When we move beyond this period,
the bloody, fluid-filled mess of description,
of decisions made in bleary fluorescent brightness,
the mood lighting of hospitals,
we may understand changing shapes
of bodies, of clothes, of voices,
described in language more fluid,
more colorful than your underbelly
laid bare on the table as I feign confidence,
holding your hand,
trying to keep mine from shaking,
trusting these knowledgeable ones,
the same ones who cannot come up with
a simile that is not a machine
to describe the array of sounds.
A high pitched cry colors the room,
moving us into motherhood.
Valerie Wen
Valerie Wen (she/they) is a 3rd generation Chinese American, writer and mother to two young children. Valerie has a doctorate in Occupational Therapy and works at a psychiatric hospital leading writing groups, among other treatment modalities. This poem is part of a series about the non-gestational mother.