Not the birth. Definitely not the birth.
I hear I cried but they were nothing compared
to the tearing of the flesh as I rocked this world's foundation,
sent it spinning off it's plane like an out-of-control top.
And not the raising.
I didn't have to clean the diapers, just dirty them.
I didn't have to feed the child that didn't want to eat, just embody him.
I didn't have to deal with the crying, just do it.
Sure, it wasn't easy, but it wasn't motherhood.
And now she has cancer.
And I have cancer.
Stage three.
Now.
Now my mother's pain is mine.
It is my turn to dirty the diapers and clean them too.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem