A Juniper Berry ~ Grey Baker
A Juniper Berry
and the Fantasy of Motherhood and How It Mimics Sweetness
and Why It Must Be Squashed
her name would be Juniper.
My mother told me I would question if I want kids
when I got older.
Whether or not I want them is no longer the
question.
that is, when i would make up my mind
that i even would want kids. and then,
i would have
a girl
her name would be Juniper
i have named barbies and bears and
wrote books about the fantasy of that name
i would call her Juni or my little Berry or
something sweet, something a mother
would call her
daughter
The rite of a woman, they say. The right of a
woman. A woman’s right.
They write away my rights.
My tears and my sister’s tears are just a rite, it will
pass and we will grow tired of crying. Our wrought
just rots away.
A woman writing doesn’t right the wrong.
i would weave her hair while we
giggle in a blanket fort while
she would talk about school. the
latest gossip. i would remind her that
gossip used to be powerful when
women were nothing and information
had to be passed like it was no concern
she thinks that’s silly, i do too
she would write in her diary
about how a girl told her she
was worthless.
I would read it and weep and heave and
We are still nothing. I hold hands, spine braced for
the impact. For us to be given horse blinders to keep
us in line.
We stand entwined in a trench, war paint smeared.
Tar pouring in the front line to slow our feet. But
still we march.
if Juni would have a boy it would be
easier
a boy is easier
he does no wrong
how do i tell them that
my Berry does no harm either
She has harm done onto her
by your easy boys
they think She’s easy
i start to think those boys
would harm her, easy or not
How do you want me to cry as I rip my
uterus out and sew it in you? Watch, as I sow it
in the seed planters, the farmers who reap,
who rape the countryside until it
bleeds. Whatever your answer, I’ll be told
I’m doing it wrong because my outburst
must mean I’m red with sins
of the first disobedience.
She’s gone
In a blink she’s gone
My daughter my barbies my bears my books
I couldn’t tell when I lost them
But I know I have
I mourn the loss, come morning I’ll move on, motion passing that I’m already due. A girl, born to birth and berated about it every day.
I stop the cycle, a dirt mound I shovel
A berry, destined to never bloom.
A woman, nothing in the womb.
A daughter, like me, bitter to the tomb.