I continue to push myself to use my craft to speak to the tragedies I am witnessing. One of the things I’m reflecting on lately is the privilege of complaint, of having a regular, fairly stable life that allows you to complain about the small things, the minor issues of life, not death. I wrote this poem while doing something I do pretty much every day, cooking dinner for my family. I thought, while doing this thing that I do every day, that this is peace, and this is what I want for everyone else in the world. The peace of basic, simple living. That thought, that prayer, became this poem. (I’ve included an audio version of myself reading it as well.)
Wishes for Mothers
I wish you peace
not with the capital letter P
of book titles
glorifying war and suffering,
always coupling you
with children and elderly –
women children elderly
women children elderly –
“unfortunate casualties”
of “just causes”
“necessary evils”
the Price
to Pay
for Peace
with a capital P.
I wish you peace
of the lowercase kind
peace of babies crying –
not because bombs are dropping
and they’re scared,
not because they’re hungry
and you have nothing to feed them –
no, peace of babies crying
because they’re fed and bathed
diapers changed
rocked and rocked.
Crying for nothing,
crying because they can,
crying because your face is the sun
and they are the sunflowers in need of your light,
because your voice is a breeze across their furrowed brow,
because your love is an endless well
and they know it
so they keep reaching
deeper
deeper
with their wails.
I wish you peace
of snoring husband
who didn’t help with the dishes
farts in his sleep
because he ate too much of the meal
you stood at the stove for hours cooking.
Before he slept
he pecked your neck
and pressed his warm toes
into your still aching arches,
and now you can’t sleep
because he snores
and he smells,
but his snores are not
the unceasing artificial bee hum
of drones above your head,
and his smells are not
the reek of white phosphorus
that sticks to lungs
and burns through skin and bone.
His thank you is a burp of appreciation for the meal you cooked
but the skin of your neck where he kissed you tingles
and you roll your eyes and laugh to yourself
because he’s yours
farts and all
and he’s alive.
I wish you peace
of interrupted teatime
on deliciously quiet afternoons
pots set to simmer
late afternoon sun
splashing golden across the walls
when you thought you finally
finally
had a moment for yourself.
A few pages of the book
you’ve been trying to finish for months
that turn of phrase
that might actually be a line of poem
if you could just grab that slip of paper
and scribble it down
but no –
the children are fighting
they broke the vase
and woke the baby.
The tea grows cold
the phrase goes forgotten
the book remains unopened,
but the pages aren’t singed
the libraries and schools aren’t blown to bits
as people shelter inside
nowhere to hide
North and South
only different directions to death.
I wish you peace
of forgetting the main item
you went to the store to buy
going back only to find
it’s out of stock.
Peace of grumpy butcher
who ignores your requests
for smaller cuts
filling your bag with more bone than meat,
but it’s not endless queues
for maybe rations
blockades on your basic nutritional needs
calorie counts to keep you alive
but never satisfied
reporters deny
you are dying of hunger
your children bones and shadows.
I wish you peace
of achy joints
loose teeth
excess flesh in unwanted places
mysterious pains
every conversation a catalog of ailments
lamenting loved ones who died in their sleep
not buried in rubble
or crushed under bulldozers
shot with hands up
seeking flour to make bread
no, peace of regular,
inevitable,
mundane
death.
I wish you peace
of bad days that weren’t so bad
because you lived to complain of them
to whatever half-listening ear was closest
peace of bad kids who weren’t so bad
because they grew up for you to nag them
and criticize their every choice
peace of bad husbands who weren’t so bad
because you grew old together
and now you have nothing but time
to list all the ways they disappointed you
peace of bad decisions that weren’t so bad
because you lived to learn from them
peace of a bad life that wasn’t at all bad
because it was yours and you lived it
gloriously bored and happy
because it was yours
and no one but God could take it.
I wish you peace.
Ambata, this poem is heartbreakingly beautiful. You've articulated so perfectly the feeling I have whenever I want to complain about something mundane, next to the horrors of the peace they can't live.
Your poem is a lovely way of showing up in the moment, specific and universal at the same time.