Circled by wombmen,
One with velvet soft tough skin,
One who is made whole of broken pieces,
One with tears that fall at night but not a drop drips after the crack of dawn,
One whose laugh drowns out the sound of weeping,
One whose legs ache but she stands still knowing that she is a pillar,
One who has a heart that is home for her children, they are never homeless.
I too, am a wombman crafted by their hands.
They poured water and kneaded clay,
They shaped my backbone and toughened my skin,
They carved words of strength into my skull,
“You did not come from a rib, your spirit came from the heavens,
You are enough.”
My mother’s prayers were my alarm clock every morning.
Her knees knocked on heaven’s door,
Her voice trembled to God,
Her hands clasped bringing to him her beloved.
“How do I talk to God?” She answered,
“Child, like this.”
The beautiful sight
Of a prayer in the flesh
Learning how to pray.
These wombmen of colour,
Forever painting the world with different shades of hope.