Another summer of hushing and humming.
The locusts are buzzing and the young lovers’ legs knot
like the nylon nets of nearby fishermen. They’re caught up
to their waists, kiss-high on the Guadalupe River bank
and wrapped in the orange end of day. But the sun still
burns mid-day between them, to the gloss bead at the tip
of the glass thermometer. She skims her lips, quick past
the rough threadbare of his June promises, like when he told her
she was the only one, all the way down
the soft pull of her neck, to her bright Polaris
collar bone, that stuck out and outlined her need
for wings. And there was flight.
That night brought a moon, round as a baby,
with a reality that didn’t pay enough to finish
college, or for health insurance, or for a wedding ring
with a blushing diamond, able to rest, center of its house.
Life starts a sticky 98.6℉ here, with limited exceptions.
Hushing, humming, she rocks and rubs her stomach, a hymn sung
rising with the weeping mist of Black women
on the cold shoulders of the river, down home.
What’s going on? Marvin Gaye, heavy on the ears in 2026, heavy
legs in the mud, soaked by high water. They can’t cross state lines
for Mifepristone. Finger up to her cupid’s bow. The misery of what
happens at home, really does stay at home, close to the ribs. Darling,
hush. He rubs her legs to help her circulation, she’s a humming
incubator and she can’t afford this, if she can survive this. Free
the trapped fish in her throat, her clavicle pools wet in the sweat
of her final nine months, outlining her need.
Texas Black maternal morbidity rates remain high regardless of the education or income level of the mother. Research shows that this disparity for Black women increases by age and persists across education and income levels. As of 2023, Black people are more than three times as likely as white people to experience a pregnancy-related death.