womanhood is not
fresh mangoes
ripe, tender, fleeting
it’s older, stronger
roots twisting around stone
thick-cut bread with butter
like my mother hugging me
like my daughter’s voice
like every drop of blood
the pink sky before dark
where we survive another
and another
and another
learning to grow seeds
in polluted soil
*73/100: For the next 100 days, I’ll be writing and posting a poem every day. All photos are mine.
Wonderful! Mothers are so very special, Bridgette. 😊🙏🏻
They are, and I’m worried about mine. Please keep her in your prayers.
You bet, Bridgette.
The opening metaphor of mango is strong because of its outright rejection: womanhood is not merely ripeness, tenderness and fleeting beauty. I love how the poem then extends the imagery towards strength, rootedness, endurance and renewal.
Thank you so much! I do think I started out strong, and maybe I need to work on this a bit more to see where I can take it.
Ah! A beautiful capture of womanhood. Not mangos indeed.
Thank you. It feels a bit incomplete, and I may come back to this one at some point.
A tough gig, beautifully haunting imagery, thank you, Bridgette.
Thank you, Robert. I think this poem was a start of something bigger I need to write.
I look forward to reading it 😎