mizuko kuyo

All images featured in this story are the works of nayyirah waheed aka Yrsa Daley-Ward.

---

Love is….

Him knowing
Before I do.
Because he knows me.
My body
My smell
My moods.
And, I deny
But I pee anyways.
He sees the stick first.
We stare at each other
In disbelief.
I stare at my abdomen
In disbelief.
We laugh
And grow death silent
Back and forth
Like waves.

Love is…

His lip quivering
Eyes watering
Head dizzying
As he watches the screen.
There’s a tiny heartbeat there
In a very small thing…
And we made it.

Love is…

Trying to
come to terms
With this new chemistry
With a reversed diagnosis.
I finally get to be
the kind of woman
That I’ve always known I’d be.
The miracle that this must be.
The perfect timing that this must be.
This must be.
We must.
We must be.
We must be ready.
We must be ready…
We will be.

Love is…

His nightly treatise for delay.
Acknowledging that
He is frightened.
Who will teach him
To be this kind of man?
To see that our language
Doesn’t acknowledge his words.
To learn that men
Are required to
download fatherhood,
With the same tools
That they are given
To process
Fear
Depression
Shame
Loneliness.
So, I hold his hand.
I acknowledge his voice.
That his is both outcast
And shamed,
At conception.

Love is…

The words
Between friends
Who were once
small boys
And then became men.
And men
Who became
Brothers.
And knowing that
I can never understand
Those conversations
But I am so grateful
That they had
those conversations.
Because men need men, too.
They have their own language
And one another…

Love is…

Me, kneeling
before the shrine
Candles lit
In every color
To every god
Pleading, begging
Words that are
Too tender
To share.
For myself,
My husband, and
This being we’ve made
From Love,
And only Love
On a small farm in Tennessee
Appropriately named
Selah.

Love is….

Learning
that not everyone
will celebrate.
Accepting
that they don’t have to.
Choosing
to not swallow shame;
what I eat
will become my child,
and me.

Love is….

Creating a small
Secret council
Of women (and one baba)
who know…
Who know my gods.
Who know this journey.
Who love me.
Who will protect me with
Availability.
With 2-tongued prayer.
Texting questions
(Because the village
Is now in my hands)
About tough choices
And hard moments.
Mothers who
were also once shamed
(And, learning that
this is common)
Mothers who weren’t ready
For the first, or second.
I cloak myself in their knowing.
They don’t judge my fear,
My doe-eyed ignorance.
The Collective gives me wings,
One feather at a time –
Delicate, steel-like structures.
They know,
So they teach me.
I am learning how to fly.

Love is…

The twinkle
In my father’s eyes
When he sees
the ultrasound.
My mothers skin,
Taut.
Burst open with joy from the
Mouth and eyes.
Perhaps she imagines
Making oatmeal for her new grandchild.
Perhaps he imagines
giving lawnmower rides
to his new grandchild.
Their empathy
Their joy
Their immediate acceptance.
Their pride.
Our bloodline
Continues again.

Love is…

My Auntie.
Who knew in her spirit
“…you need some encouragement.”
So she hugs me,
The way that
Prayin’ aunties do.
And she rocks me,
The way that
prayin’ aunties do.
And we sing together.
“Sometimes you…
Have to encourage yourself.
Sometimes you…
Have to speak victory
During the test.”
We have never
sung together
Before today.
But today is perfect.

Love is…

The small church
Where I was baptized,
And ran to hug the pastor
After service
Around his shins –
Knee-high.
The pastor sees me now
From the pulpit –
The prodigal daughter,
Home again.
He mouths at me
Across the sanctuary
Through greyed whiskers
“You sangin’.”
I’m shook.
I’m obedient.
I know one song.
So I sing –
“Sometimes you…
Have to encourage yourself.
Sometimes you…
Have to speak victory
During the test….”
Now I’m crying,
And so is the choir.
And the congregation.
And the elders.
I’m holding my new belly
And we yelp
The pious collective
Up to heaven.
God is paying
Distinct attention
As we sing for
my daughter,
Selah.

Love is…

Connecting more,
And in more ways.
My body is changing
And I like who I’m becoming.
We tell new jokes,
And see a therapist,
And interpret our dreams
In the morning.
He makes me food,
And I weep with gratitude.
He sings me new songs.
I can’t wait to rub his feet.
He insists on supplements
And salads
And enough water
And naps at 3pm every day.
We are afraid together
But, we are together.
Finding, and moving in new rhythm
Together.

Love is….

The dog,
Incessantly following me
Because my smell has changed.
My sleeping
My crying
Her dad’s nesting
And care-taking.
She won’t leave my side.
She sees, she knows.
Dogs always do.

Love is…

Acceptance
More and more every day.
He kisses my belly,
And has confident dreams.
We tell his mother
On Mother’s Day.
Her eyes twinkle –
Her empathy
Her joy
Her immediate acceptance.
Her pride.
Her bloodline
Continues again.

Love is…

Anticipation of the appointment
To see our baby’s face.
To marvel at modern technology.
The screening begins,
And the screen is black.
Me, smiling
“Our baby’s just hiding!”
I am simple.
As simple as a blank, black screen.
His eyes, wide
Dilated and empty,
Like that blank, black screen.
I smile still,
Because denial is safe.
The nurse departs,
Leaving behind no conclusion.
We wait.
He tells jokes that nearly make me
Tumble from the bed.
The doctor returns
And explains to us –
Demise.
“This happens sometimes…”
No blood.
No pain.
No signs.
The sudden surprise of
False preparation
For a weeks-old death.

Love is…

Shock –
The body protecting itself
From overheating emotion.
We walk home,
Past playing children.
Their cries and laughs
Slice like falling glass
From a high window
Onto the back of my neck –
Those will never be this child’s voice.
I am carrying deception.
Belly swelling in falsehood.
We will not wait for nature –
Nature took our promise.
Rid me of the falsehood.
I won’t nurture a lie anymore.

Love is….

The doctor vacuuming between my legs,
With the same care and attentiveness
As if it were for her own daughter.
And in her Jamaican accent,
Praising my partner.
“I like how attentive he is of you.”
She bows over me
Holds me when she is done,
And let’s me cry.
“Her name was Grace.”
She agrees that the name is good.
Selah.

Love is…

Him returning into that room
To retrieve me,
Glimpsing crimson matter in a jar,
Being washed down the sink.
Holding my hand
To lift me up from my plank.
To help me stand away from my plank
To see the pool of blood
I leave behind.
To hold me with his eyes.
To be weak with and strong for me,
All at once.

Love is…

A tribe
Suffering with us
Standing for us.
Making a circle around us
Silent and full
Like one moon.
“Cling to each other,”
Say the council of Mothers.
And so, we wrap around us
Like united trunks.
We fuse,
We thick-bark.
Winter is here.
We are inside,
Emoting in waves,
Encircled in love by
The moon.

Love is…

Sole safety
With the one who saw your jar of blood
And knew what it means –
The pain, and the relief.
To affirm that the true life wasn’t suctioned,
But that the true source remains –
Always remains –
With me.
Selah.

Love Is…

Standing for my
suffering, now –
Absolute. Temporary.
Thorough.
There is no strength
In suppression.
He wants me strong.
He wants me powerful.
So be weak today
And tomorrow as well.
Die,
And let it be thorough.

Love Is…

Crying.
Allowing it.
Rejecting the task of
Saving face.
Crying to free myself.
Empty myself.
Run from hot to cold.
Tears as libation to the Earth
For self and mourning,
And those who suppress –
Our mothers.
Our husbands.
Feeling a belly full of
Allowance
For you and the whole world.

Love is…

Kindness to strange women.
The cashier
My Uber driver
The woman on the train
The SVP
Because this happens
To 1 in 5 women.
Many women
Have also bled
For way too many days.
Peeled away
Dumped
Rolled
Tossed
Crimson tissues
Full of tissue
That used to nurture.
Watched swollen breasts
And bellies
Flatten.
I am still bleeding now,
But shopping
For organic produce.
If I am,
Someone else here
Must be too.

Love is….

Acknowledging that
Today
I am angry with God
With all of the gods
With everyone I know
Who
And how
To pray to.
To allow myself wrath
And disappointment.
To put my shells away.
To tuck away my beads.
To sit on the sidelines of faith.
For a little while…
Just a little while.

Love Is…

Talking about that time when
I came unhinged.
And it scared him.
And it scared me, too.
Screaming through two throats –
One flesh
One ghost. We both recall scenes –
The New World.
Dances With Wolves.
And we acknowledge the space
The mourning.
With silence
With nods.

Love Is…

My mother
And her arch wisdom
As the supreme elder.
The Supreme.
She instructs me on
What to do with my body
Now that it is waning.
She tells me new wisdom,
Secrets just 8 weeks ago –
She calms my fears
As liquid emerges
from my breasts
White tears
For a small mouth
It will never meet.
She tells me
the art of wrapping,
Emptying my breasts,
The healing process,
How to support myself
How to…
How to…
How, too…
She knows, and now
I do too.
She knows,
Because I am her
Daughter
And history repeats
Itself.
Even the ugly parts.

She’s allowed to remember
And share
And pass me the tears
to empty
Which she couldn’t cry.
I cry for us both.
I cry for generations.

Love Is…

Space. And,
Grace.
Selah.
Telling the truth
Sometimes.
Lying sometimes.
Selah.
Some relationships
are made of Poplar.
Others, made of Oak.
Selah.

Love Is…

Separating
The puddle
From the leak.
The divine
From the devotees.
Saying to God
“I miss you.”
Whispering the names.
Reaching for beads sometimes.
I am not the first
to become angry with God.
Writing new rules
For how I will worship
How I will pray.
The former way
No longer works for me;
Desperate prayers
gifting calloused, ulcerated tongues
I put the cayenne pepper away.
And the honey, too.
I can not rush a tide;
I am not the moon.
Some things
Are just seasonal.

Love is…

Eyeliner, again.
A hip bath,
Because the bleeding
has finally stopped.
Becoming untethered
For the day
Just so that we can text,
And flirt again.
A new book
Reminding me of
The essentials –
Eat. (I’ve gained 15 pounds)
Pray. (Like training a mute)
Love. (More deeply than before, for all things)
A bikini wax.
Calling my elders.
Worrying
About my mother again,
Not the other way around.
Shopping for mattresses.
Havana twists by Ugandan sisters.
Slumber parties
with new friends.
Almond croissants and chai.
One too many cocktails
In my good dress…
Abandoning to the bathroom
For just a moment
To silently scream in the stall
After she apologizes for your loss.
Dab tears from face,
Practice smiling,
Return to the table.
Toast again.
Often forgetting –
Pain this deep
Can’t go that far
In less than 90 days…

Love Is…

All 6 weeks of knowing you.
What you did to
Your father & me.
How you filled me
with new water.
Gave me new songs.
Gave us new strenths.
Gave us refined community.
How you left and
Snatched away my presumtions,
and, my desperations.
I will never hold you
But I thank you,
Our Chickpea.

Like a ship in the doldrums
Like unemployment
Like a quiet cocoon
Like a coma
Like insomnia
Like a new seed in the soil
Like contractions for a new mother
Like purgatory
Like the waiting room after trauma
Like depression
Like mourning.
We wait.
And, We journey through.
No signs of when, how, which direction
But here we are, until.
Love is…
not a promise;
It is a mechanism.
A process.
A witnessed, unscheduled phenomenon.
Love is…
Inevitably moving on
And being moved.

---

Note: The Atlanta Soto Zen Center offers the Buddhist mizuko kuyo, or “water baby”, ritual for any parent suffering with the loss of a pregnancy by miscarriage or abortion. There are many online resources to learn about this ceremony. While I did not take place in this ceremony myself, if you would like to have this ritual conducted during your time of mourning, please contact Sensei Taiun Elliston Roshi at taiunmelliston@gmail.com.

---

 

All poem images featured in this story are the works of nayyirah waheed aka Yrsa Daley-Ward.

On September 26, 2017, ‘bone’ by Yrsa Daley-Ward will be released in book stores across the U.S. and across the U.K. Pre-order your book here.