My Mother’s Body Was a Question Mark

My mother’s body was a question mark.

I am unsure if I am the answer that followed.

My mother’s body held her prisoner.

She sowed seeds of liberation in my bones.

My mother’s body was a mystery.

I have only known it to be my mother’s skin.

My mother’s body was a story.

It speaks in both present and past tense and knows no ending.

My mother’s body brought forth life four times.

My own body seizes & pulls into itself when confronted with memory of her death.

My mother’s body was my first home.

Does her absence render me homeless?

My mother’s body had claimed me before I was anything to anyone.

If I am not hers, whose flesh will claim me?

My mother’s body was a question mark.

It unfurled and gave itself back to the place where the question first came.

All I have are questions where her body used to be

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I am both a question mark and answer. Pursuit of my own freedom is her liberation lived out. I am a mother and I am my own mystery. I am a continuation of a story that spans centuries. I am life. I am my own home. I am my still mother’s daughter. My own flesh claims me. I am my own home. I am my own home. My body is her body.