If it's embedded in the epidermis, the skin begins to sallow,
saddened yellow
If she suppresses it in her spine, the bend in her back slows the
walk,
shallow breathing
If she clasps it in her hands, arthritic stiffness crimps her fingers,
someone comb her hair
After devastating trauma, a woman knows
how to wear her pain.
If it's stuck in her throat, there is a tightness in her voice,
singing parched
If she keeps it stored in her eyes, you can't count the blinks
in one minute,
stuttering vision
If she remembers it in her groin, monthly blood makes her
cry,
soaked napkin
A woman who survives is a walking journal of her woes.
But, her body after breaking can regenerate, that is its natural
inclination, assisted by the will of her soul,
and if she finds the medicine of love, bonds of friendship and
family, she can learn again that buds blossom,
stems become branches, and she can let go the leaves--
ultimate crumpling in golden-orange beauty.
We notice the changing, the turning of the leaves, but never
reflect on their death. There is a reason for this.
Think rejuvenation.
Contemplate the cycle of seasons.
...but back to women. women who survive eruptions of change
within a life, within a body. We too can be reflections
of the possibility of healing.
Our leaves are turning...We pop pimples and the skin heals,
we shed placenta but eggs continue their
monthly rolls across the lawn of our birthyards,
we lose breasts, but may still nurture the young and
the aged with mothering instincts
that transcend all body parts.
After devastating trauma, a woman knows how to
shed her pain,
A woman who survives is a walking journal of her strength.
We walk among each other,
the hurting and the healing, we
are never alone.
--Tammy Melody Gomez
completed Feb. 18 '94
Austin, Texas