Voices from unmarked graves

Voices from unmarked graves

It sounds like the drip of water droplets on a hardwood floor,

through the silent embrace of the still night.

Rhythmic beats flooding the air that feeds that bliss.

That midnight sensation,

because my child sleeps.

Breathes. Lives.

Her heart sings, melodic tunes, in a place still grasped by maternal mortality it's small moments like these that turn ifs into many possibilities.

My kid, will make it past three,

maybe twenty past twenty three and at thirty maybe have kids of her own. Immortal infant.

My babies form will not be plagued by wolves; let her know her daddy fought the world, gave his all, sweat and blood,

so that he would see her all grown.

The 2010 maternal mortality rate per 100,000 births for Zambia was 320,

470 before that, the fear follows us like shadows do the little lights snuffed abruptly even before they could hear their moms say I love you.

When that thin line is broken their moms weave thoughts of grey to keep warm from the cold that it is true, your baby's gone,

their bitter cries heard more often than it should.

My child, no older than their own,

even I cry when no one's looking even worse for parents that won't know of my existence,

but I feel their pain too.

They say it's only but a few to the many,

but few is a tally,

few wants to breathe and be human enough to live the life too.

The feelings they gives us are our elixir,

if only they could be as immortal like day break comes hasn't the ground felt enough salted rains to say enough--to calm the storms.

3.7 million globally aren't just more names to the norm,

it's a whirl wind of happy turned tragic, so quickly, the diapers overpriced but you bought them gladly, for your childs happy.

Till the mist clears,

you realise that the crib will stay empty,

your expectant arms will hold no baby,

you will harbour tombstones each day folded neatly after you had hung them outside to dry,

no paler sight as the colors flushed out of a mother's face when she caresses her still born,

faceless, no name, not immortal,

and now anxiety is a ghost that holds our happy in it's greedy hands for ransom,

like we haven't paid enough.

Like our skins are like shells molded through the ages to make us tougher but they are fickle fickle things.

We pay,

with unmarked graves,

and broken dreams,

the carpenter carves more boxes each day.

21/03/18✅