I wrote a poem yesterday about mothers who do not blink an eye at the sight of children, starved, shattered, mauled, and bombed by design.
I wrote a poem about all the mothers who sit in silence, undisturbed by the most televised genocide in history, because it's complicated, because it’s nuanced, because it’s far away.
I wrote a poem yesterday about mothers who feed their children at night; scroll past images of the unfed, dried lips, ash-covered limbs, someone else’s children thirsting for mercy; then slip beneath warm sheets, plotting tomorrow’s plate, undisturbed.
I wrote a poem about mothers who are bold when it’s trendy, vocal when it’s safe, and who believe that motherhood worth praising belongs to a passport, a race, a nation, a faith.
I wrote a poem yesterday about mothers who juice and meditate each day, whose well-being excludes the well-being of others, blind to their privilege, cowardly in spirit.
I wrote a poem about mothers who hold their children tig…
