Recently I came across an article about Sandby borg, a new site archaeologists discovered in Sweden. It seems that several people were massacred in a raid, mainly males and small children. No female bones were found. A narrative presented itself. While I read the story, I mediated on my own existence as a mother and found that I could not bring myself to imagine what these women went through. The only thing I had to offer was the following.
On Receiving a Push Notification About a Recently Discovered Mass Grave
I cannot inhabit you.
Trapped safely behind a blurry wall, dulled by routine and joy,
I read their bones and your grief,
digitized in the glow of my device.
Like you, my daughter sleeps beside me in the dark
But I cannot inhabit you.
Where did they take you?
Bones of men, boys,
infants.
Trauma.
Blunt.
Cracking your life in half. Everything
Shattered. You
Whisked away on the brutal tide of ancient violence
Of which I've written of before but not like this.
I can't come close to comprehending your grief.
I gave birth to my own soul. It lays
Beside me in the dark.
My mind creeps up to yours,
But I cannot inhabit you.
How long did you last? What other terrors occurred that remain unread?
Or.
Wild age,
Did you find something new?
Surely you couldn't mend after that. Surely you were a ghost of yourself.
Your pain was hard and harsh and
I blaspheme your name by writing about it
Behind my soft, fleshy wall.
Recognition of your uninhabitable pain is all I can offer.
Seeing your baby's bones my nerves scream.
I'm sorry your pain is mere allusion.
But you were real.
And I cannot inhabit you.
