I was thinking about how it takes so much effort to deescalate the intense emotional power of remembered images that recall the darkest regrets in life.  My own struggles are indelibly linked to my mother’s passing. I was thinking how I’ve labored mightily to not let those mental flashes ignite the insistent burn of guilt, on to self-hatred, on to the immolation of light that is ultimately unoptional.  I have mostly come out the other side of that lowest, but potent images lurk and tempt to upend hard fought equanimity.

The notion of labor in reference to mental interiority got me thinking about the actual labor of childbirth.  I’ve had three homebirths, and in comparison, those physical labors are much more about ease.  Though there are some interesting parallels with the contrasts.  So, I wrote a poem about it:

I’ve labored long hours

for literal movements

of lives unbound, grown beyond

my interior holding.  Those births

contain the pain

refusing complaint

too forcefully focused

breathing the deepest waves

to overcome.

Figurative labor strains,

brain coaxed to reveal

breaths beyond that wretched last

of entirety gone,

your voice and our womb.

so hard the clutch regret

searing loathsomeness

a mind carefully eyed

might refuse a haunting

to insist upon delivery.