My legs walk me to babyland,

where death and newborn names

grip my heart and hold it still.

between being held,

and being freer

my feelings slip out.

tears no different than water,

nourishments springing again

out of bodies tilted by depression.

fourteen year old fears

blur with six year old wonder

combing through courage

with enough discernment.

I wonder, she says;

I’ve learned, she hears.

You taught me,

we say together.

we wandered from dead thing to dead thing

in search of life.

i’ve learned that living things

don’t need dead things

always this near by.

you taught me that I can be here,

and that I will leave here,

back and forth,

coming and going,

content with grief,

but not home.

my home is still apart from

cemeteries that hold my disclosures

bodies that hold my screams

churches that are too sterilized

picnic tables where echos of lies

transmit messages I’m still healing from,

and even my body where everything gathered.

amidst gathering








even smiling,

I consider voices still with me.

the coming with the going

removes what I don’t need.

you taught me that I know what I need.

sitting on the edge of babyland,

I wonder if that’s all freedom is today.





to those gone and just arrived

wanting to teach us.



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Amanda Lindamood

Writer. Thinker. Facilitator. Advocate. Invested in accountability for power based violence, creative initiatives, and meaningful, nuanced dialoguing.