Teaching My Mother How to Give Birth

by Warsan Shire

I have my mother’s mouth and my father’s eyes; on my face they are still together.

This line was inspired by a photograph from my childhood - I’m sitting on the capet, a toddler holding a framed photograph of my parents wedding day, gazing at it. They divorced a few years later, but I’m still in love with the idea of what could have been. I write about my parents relationship in my collection ‘Bless the Daughter Raised by a Voice in Her Head’ (3/1/2022)

I did not beg him to stay because I was begging God that he would not leave.

I was speaking with a good friend about love and its relationship to pride. We were listening to ‘love is stronger than pride’ by Sade, (the anthem for softening the hearts of stubborn women). We discussed our shared refusal to beg a man. Later when I was alone, I wrote this.

Anything that leaves her mouth sounds like sex. Our mother has banned her from saying God’s name.

I’ve always loved horror. I’m interested in the connection between the fear of the supernatural and and the fear of the ‘promiscuous’ woman. The response to these women seemed to evoke a kind of fear that reminded me of religious horror. Unholiness, the spirit jumping from host to host. Do you like horror? I really enjoyed ‘Titane’ (2021) The protagonist in this film is a good example of the kind woman, in the world of this poem - who would be ‘banned from saying God’s name’.

You were a city exiled from skin, your mouth a burning church.

Miriam Makeba was so deeply beautiful. I would listen to ‘Khawuleza’’ on repeat and write an endless stream of consciousness. Have you tried that before? Just writing whatever comes to your mind for a minute or two. This is how the first draft of this poem came about.

No one leaves home unless home is the mouth of a shark.

I wrote this poem in Italy after meeting with Somali refugees that had just been released from a detention centre. I was feeling very overwhelmed. The first version of this poem is ‘Home’ which turned into ‘conversations about home at the deportation center’.

I want to make love, but my hair smells of war and running and running.

The refugee has experienced romance, has been touched tenderly, has written love poems, has danced nude, has a favourite colour. Often suffering seems to overshadow all other details of a human being and that distortion strips empathy, creating more space for cruelty, more suffering.

Apathy is the same as war, it all kills you, she says. Slow like cancer in the breast or fast like a machete in the neck.

This could be much better, but I send my younger self a kiss for trying

But God, doesn’t she wear the world well?

I’ve struggled with body dysmorphia since my teen years. This poem came from an attempt at comforting myself, addressing that deep belief. Have you ever read a poem that makes you feel beautiful? ‘Wont you celebrate with me’ by Lucille Clifton does that for me.

To my daughter I will say, ‘when the men come, set yourself on fire’.

Do you feel that there are some situations where death is the better outcome? I remember Oprah’s advice on abduction - try to do whatever you can not to go with them, even if they are threatening you with violence or death. What they have planned for you is worse than just being killed right there and then on your own terms. This is what I was thinking about as I wrote this. What a way to lighten the mood.