Ruth Stoops

If Another Woman carried my child,

Knit him together,

Gave him life and birth,

How would I regard her?

I would love her.

Thank her stretch marks,

Adore her new, changed skin.

Bless her altered body,

Praise her womb.

I would not be ashamed of her mothered figure,

Full, transitioning, worn.

For it housed my most precious love,

The dearest child,

My son.

But it was not Another Woman.

It was Me.

Why then, does shame infiltrate?

Why try to hide the bump that I used to wear with pride?

Why shed tears of fear over my sexuality,

My beauty,

My worth?

No more.

I will thank, bless, adore, praise this body.

The One which did the work.

The One which still sustains my baby.

Lovely, able, weathered me.

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