Mary Magdalene | Jenny Wren
I feel stripped raw.
These times come cyclically and I in my discomfort I wear my hair around my face, a shielding and a feminine cloak.
Masking the darkness and the deep.
Allowing me to slip by unseen. To pretend, for a time.
Unrest hums within my soul.
The feast day of Mary Magdalene - she, the misjudged, the whore and the Holy Grail.
Feeling imperfect, feeling exposed.
How hard to be a woman when your sexuality is turned and used against you.
The gift of life made violent.
Like birth, perverted, turned against us and using fear and shame to keep us downtrodden.
How to be a good lover.
How to be a good mother.
I have walked these paths in different ways. Refusing to be a victim in birth, the other I don't dare speak of.
I bite my tongue and force a smile instead. Good girl.
Whether I do what I want with my body or not, I'm wrong.
Walking the impossible line. Do as you're told, or be forever condemned.
Mary Magdalene.
My Summer Body | Jenny Wren
I have a summer body.
My body darkens under the summer sun as I share an ice cream with my daughter.
She has sprinkles around her mouth and she eats intently.
Later, she starts to pull at my halterneck and whine and I feed her from my summer body.
Her hat is askew on her head like a wilting dandelion. Or a flowerpot man.
And when she sleeps, my breast is a cushion for her sweaty head. She is perfection - rosy cheeks and puppy snores.
When she wakes, I tie her to my back, my underarms dark and fluffy on my summer body.
The legs that prickle and brush together under flowing skirts.
There is work still to do, to undo shame.
My body is not a dirty secret that I must sanitise.
My summer body digs its feet in sandy beaches, my hair curls up from the breeze and my eyes turn green.
My summer body carries my daughter on strong shoulders and dips her in the sea with loving hands.
My summer body feeds my babies and I nourish myself with good food in turn.
My summer body sweats and bleeds.
My summer body
Is
Me.
Forgetting How To Be Light | Jenny Wren
On being a woman who has been through trauma.
And men who don’t understand.
They joke, they flirt, they tease…
My cheeks get hot, because I can’t respond like that.
We women—
Who have fought tooth and nail to survive. Making breakfasts and lunches while our blood hums and our minds reel. Our standards lowered to just safe, just safe.
Our laughter, when it comes, is raucous… finding comfort over the miles that separate us as we trade witticisms on those we once considered captors. Late nights whispering and wondering. Relishing the little comfort, the secret betrayal of the looming dark shadow.
I am not the lighthearted girl.
Only other women are safe now.
We check the garden before we lock our back door. We breastfeed while typing statements and making reports.
The man on the phone said don’t bottle it up, it will consume you. I can’t say that my voice is bound, my words halted… for now.
How to explain to a four year old his hiding game ignites those feelings you can’t escape.
And sometimes you cannot stand to be touched.
The onus is on me.
How was your day? He says.
I want to say something pleasant, but it’s not.
I kiss the baby goodbye, and I drive.
To face my demons, wild-eyed. I sit there with my hands entwined, hearing the words fall like knives.
My breasts ache for her and yet, yet, this is our life.
And I’ve forgotten how to be light.