Cella filled my thermos with hot water at a café where I was working. After a summer of decadence, I’ve been trying to drink less coffee, I told her. Cella said, “Me too, mostly because I’ve got a baby due in a week and a half!” Turns out pregnancy is well hidden by aprons. She and I talked for a long while, and I admired her wisdom and acceptance and humility. Cella said, “Even though I’m ready for it to end, pregnancy is the coolest thing ever, the kicking and all the learning. I have known from the start,” she said, “that this one will be a girl.”
The Stranger: Cella
The Word: Humble
The poem I wrote:
When the soil between her legs
is rich and ready, pull down rain
from the waterfall of her hair
and let it wash away her past,
her reasons for wanting to lie fallow:
fill in seeds until she is ready to burst.
Do not waste time wondering
will there be carrots who come out,
or ginger root, or raspberry, or can
you make tea from the grasses
that sprout around her shins? Here
in her arms a dais, a place to rest
and pray. Know, child, that afterward
she cannot go back to being un-beast,
she is changed by love for her burden.
She will never be un-humble,
she knows what dirt and life
we all are made of. See the flowers
that grow from the base of her spine.
The Challenge: Do you have a poem in you on this word? Write one here.