Quickening

Quickening

Eréndira Ramírez-Ortega

We need our mothers to hold the flashlight
Over the bridge we walk together. 
Her hand in mine, 

I grip her fingers,
Afraid to lose them if I turn my head;
Like when she plaited my hair 

As a girl, overlapping this section over that one,
A rope neatly wrapped with a 
Red ribbon like blood,

A bow at the nape of my neck, 
A delicate chain of gold moored over my chest, 
An emblem that signals I am hers.

We push our daughters away
When their knees buck against our bellies
As we lie over cotton and down,

Aching to sleep, counting the months 
We remain tethered.
We shudder at the quickening—

Be still, my child, be still.

Why then when we grow old
Do we seek mothers who never birthed us?

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Eréndira Ramírez-Ortega
Writer & Poet

Eréndira writes fiction, essays, and poetry. She’s writing a novel. Find her list of published work here: www.erortega.com/writings

Photography by Josh Hild