Tribe of Woods - Warsan Shire

I held down my daughter last night
spread her limbs across the forest
laid her out to rest
crushed berries across her mouth and
gave her my knuckles to chew on

I gave my daughter to a man
an offering that made my stomach tight
with want, he spread her limbs across the town
I prayed she felt something,
wriggled underneath him like
the women across the border,
I listened out to hear her moan
but I heard nothing.

my husband tides himself
inside the wetness of another woman
my marital bed is a cleft chin I lag my
tongue across, my body has never felt
heat, my back has never arched.

I gave my daughter to a boat last night
pressed prayers into her palms and
told her to quiet her tears
women like us can’t afford to be weak
and I want different from my grand daughter.

my daughter will curse my name in a foreign hospital
where her limp pregnant body
will be inspected by a bone lipped doctor
who’ll ask “what happened to this woman”.

tell him your mother took it
a tribe of women the woodsmen
a rusted blade the axe
folklore and religion,
but tell him your mother meant well
and promise me
that you’ll teach my granddaughter
that there is never any shame in want.

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Warsan Shire (born 1988) Kenya (lives in UK)
Source: Badilisha Poetry