Dedication
For my mother—
who held the storm and called it love.
And for my grandmother—
who birthed the woman who birthed me,
who stitched survival into every fold of her hands.
You are the root and the river.
This book is my offering,
my return to the soil that raised me.
The Dark Before
Sound, silence, the mystery of pre-birth.
Pulse, fluid, and the hush of the womb.
[1] First Sound
Before light, there was pulse,
the steady rhythm of life that breathed even before the world dared to wake.
Before the sun ever kissed the earth with its warm touch,
there was a pulse, a heartbeat that knew no beginning or end,
a heartbeat that would become my first lullaby.
Before the voice of the world whispered its language,
there was a thrum—a soft, persistent hum that filled the silence
and wrapped the universe in its endless song.
Before the world could shape my words or my thoughts,
there was only her heartbeat,
knocking in the dark with a force that could shake the heavens.
It was older than time, older than the stars—
a sound more sacred than any prayer,
and it was hers.
Her heart was the rhythm that steadied the chaos,
the pulse of the earth that told me I was wanted,
that I belonged,
before I even understood what belonging meant.
That pulse was the first language I knew,
before there was sound, before there was speech—
it was her voice, speaking through the silent moments,
telling me everything I needed to know.
Her love—already deep, already fierce,
a love more ancient than the dawn itself,
was the first thing I ever felt,
before I could even comprehend what it meant to be loved.
Her heart called to me, and I answered,
though I was still in the quiet place where worlds are born,
where the first sound begins.
[2] Anatomy of Inheritance
I carry her hips like a secret,
deep within the soft recesses of my being,
a secret buried under skin-thick memories,
those quiet stories written in the bones of the women before me,
a legacy held together by the threads of time,
woven into the shape of who I am.
These hips are more than bone and flesh;
they are the silent echo of the generations that have come before me,
the strength of my grandmother's prayers,
the wisdom of my mother's sacrifice,
the fire of all the women whose hearts have burned with love,
with longing, with hope.
I carry the stories they could not tell in words,
the ones that slipped through cracks in time,
the stories of their love and loss,
their joy and grief.
It is not only the curve of my body that I carry,
but the unspoken knowledge that lives within my cells,
the memory of every tear she shed before I could hear her,
before I could understand what it meant to hold someone's heart in your hands.
These bones, this body, is the inheritance I cannot deny,
for it is stitched together with threads of their resilience,
their survival,
their untold strength.
Her blood flows in me,
a river that carries the echoes of all that she endured,
the laughter, the struggles, the moments of quiet grace,
the unspoken bond that binds us across generations,
through time, through space.
What she cried before I could hear,
I now carry with me in silence,
like a prayer passed down through the very marrow of my bones,
a prayer that will never fade,
but will continue, eternally,
in the shape of my heart.
[3] Nine Moons
I grew under nine watching moons,
each one a sentinel in the sky,
each one a silent witness to the unfolding of my soul.
Under the watch of these moons,
I began to understand the rhythm of life,
the flow of time,
the gentle pull of gravity that holds us all in place.
Each moon was a mirror,
reflecting back to me the warmth of her touch,
the tenderness of her love,
the deep connection we shared even before I could speak her name.
Each moon, a bruise of silver,
pressed gently against the belly of night,
marking my journey from shadow to light.
In their glow, I felt the heartbeat of the earth,
the pulse of her love,
and I learned to navigate the spaces between light and dark.
The moons whispered to me,
their silvery rays soft against my skin,
guiding me with the quiet wisdom of the stars,
telling me that even in darkness, I was not alone.
The space between the moons was not empty,
but filled with the memory of her touch,
the sound of her voice,
the rhythm of her breath.
Each moon was a bruise,
a reminder that growth is sometimes painful,
that the beauty of life is born from the shadows,
from the places we cannot yet see.
Under the nine moons, I found my shape,
not in the light of day, but in the quiet embrace of night,
where her love was the light that guided me,
where every phase of the moon was a lesson in becoming.
And as I grew, so did the understanding that I was never truly alone,
for her love would always be my guide,
my constant,
my moon.
[4] Ultrasound Elegy
They found me floating,
a mystery suspended between worlds,
a whisper among waves,
not fish, not ghost, not promise—
just the quiet pulse of life,
drifting in the silence of her love.
In the cold, sterile light of the ultrasound room,
they looked for me,
but I was already there,
in the rhythm of her heartbeat,
in the softness of her breath.
I was not yet formed,
but already I knew what it meant to be loved.
They saw me on the screen,
a shadow among waves,
mapped by sonar and silence,
a flicker of hope in the darkness.
I wasn't just a collection of cells,
not just a potential future—they found me,
and in finding me, they found a promise
that had always existed,
woven into the fabric of her being.
I wasn't a thing to be named yet,
not a story to be told,
but a quiet, sacred space where life would grow,
where love would take root,
and where the sound of her heart would be my first lullaby.
I was not yet born,
but I already existed,
already loved,
already woven into her every breath.
The world was waiting for me,
but I was already a part of it,
waiting to be born,
waiting to breathe in the air she had always breathed.
I was not just floating—I was already home,
wrapped in the warmth of her love.
[5] Her Blood, My Ink
Every poem I write,
leaks from her bloodstream,
like ink that has flowed through generations,
carrying with it the weight of all the love,
all the pain,
all the untold stories that live within our blood.
The vowels curl like DNA,
twisting and turning in the language of survival,
shaped by the whispers of my ancestors,
by the love that has always been their guiding star.
The metaphors I write are born from milk and iron,
from the quiet hum of her voice,
from the strength of her hands as they held me,
as they held the weight of the world on their palms.
Each word I write carries the scent of home,
of the kitchen where she cooked and loved,
of the quiet spaces where she whispered her dreams,
of the nights when I was small and she sang me to sleep,
telling me stories of women who walked through fire
and came out stronger.
Her blood flows through me,
not just in the shape of my body,
but in every word that spills from my pen,
in every line that carries her voice,
her strength,
her love.
I write because she taught me to,
because her love was the first language I ever knew,
because in her blood, I find my own voice.
Every poem is a testament to her,
a reflection of the power she gave me,
the love that has never left me.
Her blood is my ink,
and with every word I write,
I honor her.
[6] The Womb Remembers
Long after I leave,
she keeps my shape,
carried in the quiet, sacred corners of her heart,
in the deep well of her memory,
where love and time converge into a silent embrace.
Her womb remembers me,
not just in the places where flesh met flesh,
but in the spaces between the worlds we shared.
She keeps my shape as a secret,
a quiet, tender whisper that speaks through the silence,
through the days when we are far apart,
through the years when the distance grows between us.
Even when I walk alone in the world,
her love wraps around me,
like the softest fabric,
a quiet shield against the harshness of life.
The dark cathedral of her inner hush
is the place where I was first known,
the place where the very essence of me took form,
where her heartbeat became my first rhythm,
her breath my first song.
And though I have left that space,
though I have wandered far from its shelter,
I know that her womb,
her heart,
still remembers me.
In every soft breath she takes,
in every moment of stillness between her thoughts,
I am there,
held in the quiet reverence of her love.
Even in the silence,
her love speaks to me,
reminding me that no matter how far I go,
no matter how many years pass,
I will always be her child,
and she will always carry me,
in the deepest parts of her being.
Her womb remembers me,
and I am never truly gone.
[7] First Hunger
It wasn't food I wanted,
it was her.
Her presence, her nearness,
the warmth of her touch that wrapped around me like a blanket,
the comfort of knowing that I was held in a love
so deep, so pure,
that nothing else could ever compare.
It wasn't the nourishment of the body I craved,
but the nourishment of her love,
the soft, gentle rhythm of her heartbeat
that sang me to sleep,
the way her breath moved through the air,
filling the space with the kind of peace that only she could give.
Her warmth was the only thing I needed,
the only thing that made the world feel right.
Her arms were my first home,
and I longed for them,
even before I had words to say it.
When the hunger inside me grew,
it wasn't the hunger for food that stirred in my soul,
but the hunger for her,
her touch,
her voice,
the sound of her laughter,
the way her eyes lit up when she saw me.
It wasn't milk that satisfied me,
but the sweetness of her love,
the tenderness that poured from her without a thought,
without a question.
It was her that I wanted,
her that I needed,
for her love was the food that nourished my spirit,
the sustenance that made me whole.
And though I have grown,
though I can now feed myself,
I still hunger for her—
for the quiet assurance of her love,
for the comfort of knowing that in her arms,
I will always find peace.
It was never food I needed,
only her,
always her.
[8] Cord
A red root bound us,
a thread of life that tied us together,
the most sacred connection I have ever known.
I kicked, she sighed,
feeling every movement of mine like a whisper from the deepest part of me,
a gentle reminder that I was coming,
that I was here,
but still not yet.
I dreamed, she listened,
her body tuning into the soft pulse of my thoughts,
even though I had no voice,
no words to say.
When they cut it,
the silence was not mine.
It was the silence between us,
the space where our souls had met,
now severed,
and the world felt too loud.
The cord that connected us was not just physical;
it was emotional,
spiritual.
It was the love that passed between us,
unspoken,
unseen,
yet felt in every part of our beings.
When they cut it,
it was more than just an umbilical cord;
it was a lifeline,
a bond so deep that words could not contain it,
that the world could never truly understand.
The silence was not mine because she felt it too,
a quiet ache where once there was harmony,
a longing to stay close,
to remain as we had always been.
But the world pulled me away,
and though the cord was cut,
it could never sever the bond we shared.
The silence was not mine—it was ours,
a shared memory of a time when we were one,
and no distance would ever erase it.
[9] Genetic Gospel
I am the psalm
of her mother's mother's breath,
a song that echoes through the generations,
woven into the fabric of time,
a prayer sung by the women who came before me.
I am the voice of their strength,
their love,
their survival.
In me lives the whisper of my grandmother's hands,
the warmth of my great-grandmother's embrace,
the quiet wisdom of a thousand mothers
who lived and loved,
who fought and triumphed,
who gave everything without asking for anything in return.
I carry the gospel of their blood,
a truth written in the language of survival,
a language that does not need words to be understood,
for it lives in the rhythm of my pulse,
in the beat of my heart,
in the love that is passed down through the bloodline.
I am the psalm of generations,
a song that stretches back and forward in time,
a reminder that I am never alone,
never forgotten,
never forsaken.
In every breath I take,
I carry the echoes of their voices,
their prayers,
their strength.
I am the testament of women who have loved without measure,
who have fought without fear,
who have survived the impossible,
and still continue to love.
I am their legacy,
their voice,
their love,
and in every step I take,
I honor them,
for they are the ones who made me,
the ones who taught me how to love,
how to live,
how to survive.
[10] Not Born Yet
Some parts of me
are still inside her,
still wrapped in the warmth of her love,
still held close in the safety of her arms,
even though I have already left her womb,
already stepped out into the world.
There are pieces of me that are still deciding
whether the world is worth the risk,
whether the love I will encounter here can ever compare
to the love I felt before I was born.
Still, some parts of me linger in the silence between her breaths,
in the quiet spaces where she still holds me,
where she still protects me,
where her love is the only thing I need.
Some parts of me are still inside her,
wondering what it will be like to walk in the world,
wondering if the world is ready to hold me the way she did.
I am still a part of her,
still trying to understand what it means to be both separate and whole,
to be both with her and without her,
to live in a world where the love she gave me must now be shared with others.
But some parts of me,
some pieces of my heart,
will always stay with her,
always stay inside her,
for it was in her that I learned how to love,
how to be loved,
how to grow into the person I am becoming.
Some parts of me are still inside her,
still deciding whether to leave or stay,
but one thing is certain:
no matter where life takes me,
I will always carry her inside me.
Always.
Flesh Inheritance
DNA, physical lineage, the body as an archive.
Maternal memory passed through skin.
[1] Red Language
In the womb, I learned a tongue
without words.
The language of blood,
of rhythm and pulse,
speaks in a way that needs no vocabulary,
no dictionary to explain the depth of its meaning.
It is a language older than time,
carved into the essence of our being,
a quiet conversation that happens without sound,
without thought.
The way blood speaks to blood,
without grammar,
without pause,
flowing,
constant,
in an eternal dance of life.
It is a language that carries no need for translation,
for it is understood in the way the heart beats,
in the way the body moves,
in the way the soul resonates with the presence of another.
In that dark space,
I learned a tongue not of words but of connection,
of belonging,
of knowing without having to ask.
It is the language of love and life,
a language that transcends the need for speech,
a language that is felt deep inside the bones,
a language that whispers quietly but is never mistaken.
It was in this language that I first learned how to be,
how to exist,
how to love,
and it is in this language that I will always speak,
even when words fail.
[2] My Mother Is a Country
She has borders made of bone,
strong,
unyielding,
forming the very foundation of who I am.
Her land is shaped by sacrifices made,
by love given without measure,
by the quiet strength that only a mother can possess.
Her laws are written in silence,
in the spaces between her words,
in the way her actions speak louder than anything she could ever say.
Her country is one of constant care,
one where the air is thick with memories
and the soil is rich with the weight of history.
I am a citizen of her love,
a member of a land that stretches beyond the horizon of time,
where the only thing that matters is the bond we share.
I belong to her,
not by choice,
but by blood,
by the very essence of who I am,
for her love has shaped me into something new,
something whole.
Her country is a place of safety and belonging,
where I am never alone,
never forgotten.
In her country, I am always home,
no matter where life may take me.
I am a citizen by blood alone,
and nothing can change that.
[3] Amniotic Hymn
Floating in a cathedral
of warm water,
I hummed without sound—
a monk,
silent in my devotion,
a soul wrapped in the gentlest embrace.
There was no need for words,
no need for prayers,
for the very act of being was a hymn itself,
a song sung in the deepest parts of my being,
one that echoed through the stillness,
through the sacredness of the space that cradled me.
I hummed without sound,
a song that was felt rather than heard,
a melody that vibrated through the very essence of life.
I was a monk,
dedicated to the quiet reverence of the moment,
to the sacredness of the bond between mother and child,
a bond that needed no voice to be understood.
In that moment, I was both here and not here,
both present and absent,
floating in the gentle, eternal hymn of existence.
And though I could not yet speak,
I knew that my song would always be with me,
that it would carry me through every step of life,
like the melody of a prayer that never ends.
[4] When She Dreamed Me
She told no one,
but she saw me before I came.
Not my face,
not my body,
but the weight of my existence,
the quiet presence of a soul she had yet to meet,
but already knew.
She saw me in the spaces between her thoughts,
in the moments when the world was still,
in the quietest corners of her mind,
where dreams take shape before they are born.
She saw me,
not as a child,
but as the promise of a future yet to be realized.
Not the flesh,
but the weight of being needed,
of being wanted,
of knowing that someone, somewhere,
would call her mother.
She felt me before I had form,
before I had name,
before I even existed in the world of light.
She dreamed me as the answer to a prayer,
the fulfillment of a longing she had carried in her heart,
even before I took my first breath.
And when I finally came,
when I was finally born,
it wasn't just my body she welcomed,
it was the dream she had held close to her heart,
the dream that had already made her a mother,
even before I arrived.
[5] Unfinished
I was born with questions
stitched into my spine.
Questions about who I would become,
about the world I was entering,
about the love I would give and receive.
Why this body?
Why this skin, this shape, this life?
Why her voice,
the one I would hear in my dreams,
the one that would comfort me when the world felt too loud?
Why me?
Why was I chosen to be the one who would carry this legacy,
this history,
this love?
These questions have followed me,
etched into every part of me,
into every breath I take,
into every step I make.
They have shaped me,
guided me,
taught me to seek,
to wonder,
to question,
to never settle for easy answers.
I am unfinished,
a work in progress,
a journey that will never quite reach its end,
for every question brings with it a new layer of discovery,
a new path to walk.
I was born with questions stitched into my spine,
and I will carry them with me forever,
for they are the compass that guides me through life.
The questions may never be fully answered,
but that is the beauty of it—
the search,
the discovery,
the unfolding of who I am meant to be.
I am unfinished,
and that is my greatest gift.
[6] Bone Memory
My ribs remember the pressure.
They remember the way she held me,
the way she protected me,
the way her love was the first armor I ever knew.
My skull still echoes
with the hush of her pulse,
the steady beat that soothed me,
that promised me safety,
that whispered in the language of love,
even before I understood the words.
My bones remember the moments when I was small,
when I was just a part of her,
when the world was still a mystery waiting to be discovered.
We don't forget our first cage,
the place where we were formed,
the place where we learned to be,
where we learned the rhythm of love and life.
The memory is car