Ain’t I a Good Mother?

My child, my Child,

Clings to me as I hold his back

With a whispered prayer.

My pocket is empty,

Yet there is food.

My tears are not yet shed,

Yet I cry out to you

Tell me, Lord,

Ain’t I a good mother?

Mother smells of 

salt, Sunday mornings, and

sorrow

It is wrapped in a knot so deep in her stomach 

that if she stayed in that field any longer it might undo.

Her gentle hand secures me

And hides me away from the harsh reality of the world.

Ain’t she a Good Mother?

They say I am too loud

Too poor,

Too lonely,

Too hard,

Too much,

Too black.

They expose my lack of something

To belittle the much that I give.

But they wasn’t there when I woke

In the middle of the night, 

cooing fear to sleep.

Mother is gentle 

with me.

When fear grips her

And thunder warns us of its presence,

She sings songs of love with hurt hidden in the vocal crack.

Her heart pounds loud enough to 

Match her rhythm.

Her arms are my shelter.

I walk with centuries on my back,

chains turned into groceries,

fields turned into faith.

They call me strong

but never gentle.

They call me a black mother

but never woman.

They call me too much, too little

And still not enough. 

Sometimes I find myself whispering,

asking if love looks different in other tongues.

If a white mother’s lullaby sounds softer,

if her cradle rocks easier.

Still, I sing.

Her song sounds like home,

like the ocean humming.

I don’t know rich,

I don’t know easy,

but I know her.

She hides her tears like she hides the holes in her dress.

But when I look up, I see light.

When she says “We gon’ make it,”

I believe her.

Every breath I take is a rebellion,

Every step forward is a step closer to freedom.

I hold him close

because the world would rather not.

I hold her tighter

because the world forgets what she’s worth.

Maybe the world won’t ever say it plain.

But when he looks at me,

when he smiles that small, soft smile

I ask again,

quietly,

Lord,

Ain’t I a good mother?