some mornings, after prayer,
my mind wanders down to the darkness
of the lower decks, to women
packed in like dry goods upon a shelf
hardly room to stretch their legs, their arms.
I feel them there in the discomfort of womanhood—
moon phases passing through their bodies
during the long ship’s journey
or pregnancy filling their wombs—
abdominal muscles separating.
I have to pull myself away from sisters
who groan and cry for the unknown fate they face.
Today, I’m going to enjoy the freedom
that’s mine in remembrance of women
in the lower decks
who could only imagine the luxury
of ample interior space.
I’m going to eat a hearty meal for them.
I’m going to read because they could not.
I’m going to write this because I can.
Bravo! This poem bought to mine the gospel hymn lyric “Then my living shall not be in vain.” A beautiful tribute to those who suffered and died. Because of them we live. So live, poet, live.
What a wonderful poem of suffering transformed into hope because the poet could pen it.
Love this poem so much, Ellen!