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My Mother: The Places We Come From

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MY MOTHER’S BELLY

By Sonya Renee Taylor

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The bread of her waist, a loaf
I would knead with 8 year old palms
sweaty from play. My brother and I marveled
at the ridges and grooves. How they would summit at her navel.
How her belly looked like a walnut. How we were once seeds
that resided inside. We giggled, my brother and I,
when she would recline on the couch,
lift her shirt, let her belly spread like cake batter in a pan.
It was as much a treat as licking the sweet from electric mixers on birthdays.  

 

The undulating of my mother's belly was not
a shame she hid from her children.
She knew we came from this. Seemed grateful.
Her belly was a gift
we kept passing between us.
It was both hers, of her body
and ours for having made it new, different. 
Her belly was an altar of flesh
built in remembrance of us by us.

 

What remains of my mother's belly
resides in a container of ashes I keep in a closet.
Every once and again, I open the box,
sift through the fine crystals with palms
that were once eight. Feel the grooves and ridges
that no longer summit but roll/rill through fingers.
Granules so much more salt
than sweet today. And yet,
still I marvel at her once body.
Even in this form say,
"I came from this."

 

Prompt Invitation

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Let the sentence starters “I came from…” and “I came from this” help you catch momentum as you move into your own free write.

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Maybe you, like Taylor, find yourself writing toward your own mother—what you know and remember of her story, her body, her language, the place she is or once was for you. Or maybe this writing carries you elsewhere: toward another person who feels or once felt like an origin, a home, a place of nourishment or becoming.

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Anybody—or anything—can become a place we come from.

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If the interpersonal world isn’t calling to you today, maybe this free write takes you toward the natural world instead: a landscape, body of water, tree, garden, animal, or season that has held you in some unconditional way. What, where, or who feels most mothering today? What has shaped you gently? What still lives in your body as memory, texture, rhythm, ache, comfort?

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Below are a few sentence-starting patterns to keep your hand moving.

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I came from…

and from…

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I came from…

I came from this.

This…

This…

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And still, I marvel at…

And her…

And her…

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I remember…

I remember…

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Reasons For Staying

(2 poems + 1 prompt)

 

Reasons to Live Through the Apocalypse

by Nikita Gill

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Sunrises. People you have still to meet and laugh with. Songs about love, peace, anger, and revolution. Walks in the woods. The smile you exchange with a stranger when you experience beauty accidentally together. Butterflies. Seeing your grandparents again. The moon in all her forms, whether half or full. Dogs. Birthdays and half-birthdays. That feeling of floating in love. Watching birds eat from bird feeders. The waves of happiness that follow the end of sadness. Brown eyes. Watching a boat cross an empty sea. Sunsets. Dipping your feet in the river. Balconies. Cake. The wind in your face when you roll the car window down on an open highway. Falling asleep to the sound of a steady heartbeat. Warm cups of tea on cold days. Hugs. Night skies. Art museums. Books filled with everything you do not yet know. Long conversations. Long-lost friends. Poetry.

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Reasons for Staying (an excerpt)

by Ocean Vuong

 

The October leaves coming down, as if called.

Morning fog through the wild rye beyond the train tracks.

A cigarette. A good sweater. On the sagging porch. While the family sleeps.

That I woke at all & the hawk up there thought nothing of its wings.

That I snuck onto the page while the guards were shit-faced on codeine.

That I read my books by the light of riot fire.

That my best words came farthest from myself & it’s awesome.

That you can blow a man & your voice speaks through his voice.

Like Jonah through the whale.

Because a blade of brown rye, multiplied by thousands, makes a purple field.

Because this mess I made I made with love.

Because they came into my life, my brothers, like something poured.

Because crying, believe it or not, did wonders.

. . . . 

Because I made a promise.

That the McDonald’s arch, glimpsed from the 2 am rehab window, was enough.

That mercy is small but the earth is smaller.

Summer rain hitting Peter’s bare shoulders.

Because I stopped apologizing myself toward visibility.

Because this body is my last address.

 . . . .

Sleeping in the back seat, leaving the town that broke me, intact.

Early snow falling from a clear, blushed sky.

As if called.

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Prompt Invitation

 

In a grammar-be-damned free-write, a loosey-goosey list, or mini essay/micro-memoir, write your own "reasons" for living what you live: your beloveds, your dependents, your devotions, your questions, your answers; words you tell yourself, or silent knowings. Maybe you walk yourself through a day-in-your-life and list all the concrete details that surface: faces, smells, sights, sounds; moments in the presence of animals, or inside a freshly baked muffin. 

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Maybe you expand the aperture to write into moments from childhood, or before you were born (your ancestor's “reasons”). Maybe you let language touch moments you haven't lived yet--moments waiting in the future.

 

This writing might be affirming and joyful (cue The Sound of Music "My Favorite Things") Or it could become heavy, holding moments of pain, when you struggled to find and feel reasons to stay or keep going. Like much of our writing, perhaps this free-write is a combination of both. 

 

Whatever comes, take care of yourself. Go to the places that feel safe inside, and ready for language.​

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If it is useful, you can keep repeating the word,

 

Because

 

Because. . . .

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Because . . .

 

~ From The Writing Room, April 30th, 2026 ~

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​​I Tried, But Now

 (1 reading + 1 prompt)

 

Nude II 

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by Shira Erlichman

The Rumpus

November, 2025 
 

I tried to keep her at arm’s distance, this
woman I’ve become. Now she’s pouring out
of me, no tits to hide, all seek. She leans
back, neck to ceiling. A waterfall her
hair, a lobe readied. Her lids close, a song
undresses in the depths. I want––I did
not expect this––her mouth on mine. Sterile
is every cage. Let this be a lesson.
Where horses buck and language unravels
she’s found the knob for no-door. Take me, take
me, me. Butter in the throat, music in
the pan, sizzle the no-door open, yes,
now. No hospital wing, no religion,
no man could empty me of peonies.
 

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Prompt Invitation

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 ​Set a timer for 15 minutes (or however many minutes you have!). Then use the below sentence-beginnings as walking sticks on your free-writing path. Push off of them; lean on them to steady you & propel you forward. Or think of these sentence-starters as door-handles, something to grip onto and twist, that might open unto the rooms inside of you today, wanting language—memories, emotions, dreams, wishes, hungers, fears, regrets, free-associative hops n giggles. 

 

Sentence-beginnings to try:
 

I tried. . .  . (but) now . . . 

I tried . . . (but) now . . .

 

Or:

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I did not expect this . . .  this . . .

I did not expect this . . . . this . . .

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Or maybe: 

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This woman I’ve become. Now she's  . . . [adapt with your pronoun]

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Stick with one of these, or you can move among all three of the above sentence-starters in a musical chairs fashion, spending 5 minutes inside each one. Let yourself go where you want to go, stay where you want to stay.​ Observe & enjoy what comes through the door.​

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~ From The Writing Room, April 16th, 2026 ~ 

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~ More prompts from The Writing Room, coming soon. ~

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If you feel the pull of these prompts, and would like to gather around similar readings & practices with other writers, I’d love to have you in our next Writing Room. Learn more & sign up here.

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