The Republic of Motherhood

 

The Republic of Motherhood

 

I crossed the border into the Republic of Motherhood
and found it a queendom, a wild queendom.
I handed over my clothes and took its uniform,
its dressing gown and undergarments, a cardigan
soft as a creature, smelling of birth and milk,
and I lay down in Motherhood’s bed, the bed I had made
but could not sleep in, for I was called at once to work
in the factory of Motherhood. The owl shift,
the graveyard shift. Feedingcleaninglovingfeeding.
I walked home, heartsore, through pale streets,
the coins of Motherhood singing in my pockets.
Then I soaked my spindled bones
in the chill municipal baths of Motherhood,
watching strands of my hair float from my fingers.
Each day I pushed my pram through freeze and blossom
down the wide boulevards of Motherhood
where poplars bent their branches to stroke my brow.
I stood with my sisters in the queues of Motherhood—
the weighing clinic, the supermarket—waiting
for Motherhood’s bureaucracies to open their doors.
As required, I stood beneath the flag of Motherhood
and opened my mouth although I did not know the anthem.
When darkness fell I pushed my pram home again,
and by lamplight wrote urgent letters of complaint
to the Department of Motherhood but received no response.
I grew sick and was healed in the hospitals of Motherhood
with their long-closed isolation wards
and narrow beds watched over by a fat moon.
The doctors were slender and efficient
and when I was well they gave me my pram again
so I could stare at the daffodils in the parks of Motherhood
while winds pierced my breasts like silver arrows.
In snowfall, I haunted Motherhood’s cemeteries,
the sweet fallen beneath my feet—
Our Lady of the Birth Trauma, Our Lady of Psychosis.
I wanted to speak to them, tell them I understood,
but the words came out scrambled, so I knelt instead
and prayed in the chapel of Motherhood, prayed
for that whole wild fucking queendom,
its sorrow, its unbearable skinless beauty,
and all the souls that were in it. I prayed and prayed
until my voice was a nightcry
and sunlight pixelated my face like a kaleidoscope.


Liz Berry

 

Thank you to the friend who introduced me to this poem a few weeks back. I have been reading it every day or so since, mulling it over, trying to understand what makes it so electric and familiar (a little like my own skin), what it is that grips me in it and why. That image of Motherhood as a Republic! Not a season, or a physical state or a quality, but a Republic.  A place with rules, laws, norms (even a uniform), with its own flag and currency, industries and bureaucracies, its swimming pools and boulevards. 

What catches me off-guard is how it describes a place you "cross over into the borders of", an unfamiliar country where one stumbles along, trying desperately to learn the language and the customs, trying to fit in and do everything properly, but really finding oneself lost and isolated in a rather rigidly ordered new world, going through the expected motions - "As required, I stood beneath the flag of Motherhood/ and opened my mouth although I did not know the anthem." The first time I read that line I thought, "My gosh, that's exactly what it's like!"  I mean, we could talk all day about Motherhood - speaking of the child or the nurturing instinct or Nature or a dozen other aspects, but for someone to finally address the utter alienness of the crossing into this "queendom" - I haven't seen it done, not like this, not so beautifully. It's a place I recognized immediately - perhaps not all mothers will, but wow - for those millions of us who do, what a relief to hear the truth of our experience spoken out loud.

Speaking of "out loud", Liz Berry's performance of her poem is something special. You can find it here.