black woman’s guide to not dying in childbirth

1.
imagine aminata diallo, fictional catcher of slippery brown babies. the one with quick, small hands. imagine her cooing answer to your pain-wails, the call and response written in your spine. hear her “push, mama” in west african lilt, sorghum-slick. paint the pink impassive fingers pecan when they enter you unwarned, stiff with procedure. sing their clipped commands back at them, into the earth, feedback the surgical bells. wrap song like cloth remnants around your baby. bury your twin souls in shifting stone so someone who knows your name is listening.

2.
bring magic: a clear quartz laid linea nigra, a warrior spread tarot, cross-terrain at navel; dried spearmint. seal all with honey. let the nurses fuss over sanitary measures. hum through mumbles when they yank your coated wrist, gum up blood pressure cuffs with sweetening. tuck your hair full of incense. paint your eyelids with stark whites and wide pupils, then take a nap.

3.
consider: latasha harlins, march 16, 2001.¹ drooping globe of belly, swollen ankles. gum-pop laughter. singing off-key, pulls on tupac t-shirt when scrubs don’t fit. drives herself to king hospital, soft-tawny skin acidic and light sheened. the day before, at korean store, she bought an orange juice. smirked at the wary-eyed cashier and walked out, dope-ass high-gloss, weave ponytail tied at upper occipital. back home, bathed in the juice. preparing. stands now before firing squad of stethoscopes. she, sticky and stinging and ready to push. translation: laugh at death.

4.
bring your own utensils.
boil the water.
pack house towels,
blue or lavender.
animal bone scalpel.
come dressed in shroud and breastplate.
a war incantation
as signature
on paperwork.

5.
consider the husband stitch,
self-administered.
practice sterility. precision.
open and close you.
friends in nursing school
will loan gloves.
steady that hand.
demo on forearm.
one inch. two inch.
get good. then do it
upside down,
sew you ready.
when it’s time, wrestle
the suture kit from them.
be deft. better your bare fingers
than jagged tears
infected from pubic hairs
hemmed in.
better your tender novice
than wildfire fever.
than dementia.
than never peeing right again.
if it’s cut or be cut,
which it always is,
learn to cut yourself.

6.
spend that full final month saying.
practice in mirrors, or with feet propped.
say, “it hurts.” say, “i am bleeding.”
louder. you must say it:
“this doesn’t feel right.”
yell, “i’m human.”
yell.

7.
invent the doctor body cam. the labor live stream. show the world their indifferent eyes
above masks. let us hear how they say to you “gestational diabetes” and “standard procedure” and “morbidly obese” and “no other way.” turn your mic up. let us hear them say “bleat” instead of “bleed.”

8.
remember sandra bland, present day.
Sandy. woke auntie of permanent bracelets.
brings you cute earrings, jokes you through terse phlebotomist.
watches how and where they take your blood.
reminds the obstetrician of your permission.
counts their fingers and tongues in the nursery.
makes sure you eat. and stand.
orders an uber.
will see you in three days with her own eyes
or come knocking.

9.
conjure a doula: your clean-handed homegirl mixing turmeric in clear water. your fat sister mopping sweat with cool cloths. somebody soft and springy. somebody with a blanket fort or a prayer for your child to land on. in lieu of doctor, call her.

10.
call ancestors to bear witness.
your black mama,
born blue-eyed and denied
the arms of your grandmother.
call her to the bed they lay you on.
feel her open thighs at your shoulders,
cracked pelvis bumping your back.
call her mother. umama. iya. maman. mommy. nne.
beg her to stay. all of hers.
crowd your line of women tight in that room
so the ones with syringes can’t move
without nudging one spirit
or another. say mama.
granny. moon. ma’am.
please stay please stay with me.
don’t let them kill us.
say it.
++++
__________
¹ Latasha Harlins was murdered on March 16, 1991. Fifteen-year-old Harlins was shot in the back of the head by Soon Ja Du, a convenience store owner in South Central Los Angeles, who accused Harlins of trying to steal a bottle of orange juice.

Mia Wright is a Tulsa native. She is an educator and editor who earned her MFA in Poetry from Boise State University. Her poems have appeared in Spill Words, Elephants Never, Q/A Poetry, The Girl God, Word Riot, This Land, Watershed, and J’Parle. Wright was a finalist for the 2004 Grolier Poetry Prize, coeditor of the feminist zine Sisterspeak, and one of the producers of Colorline—a four-part arts project on racial segregation in Tulsa, which took place in May 2016. Wright is the author of three poetry chapbooks, and currently teaches at Tulsa Community College.
Instagram: @19poems. Twitter: @19poems. Blog: https://19poems.blog

Header image by Marilyn Hallett Granzyk