I sing praises for my women

For my mothers, for my sisters, for my best friend
For my daughter, Abul
I’m hoarse but I sing still;

My battles; Laid out for me at birth
It’s a girl!
My woes and pains, wrapped beautifully
Pain so handsomely administered- you might envy me
Revealed to me year after year
Bending me year after year…

Bent not broken
For when the universe uses fake allies, womanity and death to break me,
Chiseling at my esteem, questioning my ability, poisoning my willpower
It is the women in my life that restore me
Using their words, using their tears, using their presence, bending over backwards, for me
Making timely arrivals for me – My daughter, Abul

My women are my everlasting gifts
Beautiful recipes of humanity
Vocally blessed, resounding in their meekness
Placed in my path to ground me, simultaneously lifting me
Born to restore me – my daughter Abul
Effortlessly blessing me
With reasons to be a reason for someone else’s survival

A tribe that has been broken, rebuilt and then broken some more
Sound enough to rock their existing scars
Sound enough to refuse the admission of any new scars
A tribe that has in unison agreed that pain is not a legacy
We are not passing it on
Not to my daughter Abul or the ones that will come after her

My women
I’m safe in their hands and them in mine.