For My Daughter Rising intensifying gathering force Her energy crashes over us both like a wild tsunami Let me blunt its force, I think, patch up a damn Protect her from pain I cannot control That was written in our destinies long ago Chosen but not chosen Yet no one, not even a mother Can catch the water with her bare hands The surge pushes on But I cannot direct its path or lessen its force Rather I am the witness, the proof that it exists That it matters in a dark and endless universe Finally her small voice speaks: Some people have butterflies in their stomach I have pterodactyls When those pterodactyls are ready to rest, I tell her Love will come again Tired, her small body takes refuge In the embrace that rocks storms to sleep -Abigail Somma
*****
I started writing poems - I believe in about 2020 or 2021. I have kept this one because it’s so personal (well, they’re all personal!) and it involves someone else’s pain, not just mine. Watching my daughter grieve the end of her family as she knew it, literally stunned me into poetry.
Around the same time, someone I loved dearly stopped speaking to me and refused (or declined) to let me know why. For many months, I felt wracked with grief - and again forced into the arms of poetry. I wrote this.
Around the same time, I had a psycho neighbor and it seemed there was domestic violence in his apartment. His hysteria struck immense chords of fear in me, I knew my task was to sit and process what it was bringing up (and yes, eventually another neighbor called the police). I wrote this.
Poetry was the lifeline I never knew was available to me.
I haven’t written a poem in a few weeks (though I have bunch stored up). I don’t miss it. But I sometimes wonder if it’s a forever friend or if our relationship was meant to last for a particular season. When it’s work with me is done, will it take leave and visit someone else?
I don’t know.