Poetry, The Ogdenite 2022

Daughter, 
Our shared room was 
dark ink and whisper quiet  for the first time
in the months after you were born. 
I remember that sleep the way we remember our first family pets name, 
in part, because it was the first real rest the two of us shared and in other part, because i woke up suddenly exactly 2 seconds before you rolled off the bed. I missed the catch, but picked you up the moment you hit the ground and it finally made sense to me, the way my mother always just knew. If I got hurt, she heard it, down the street, through the front door, up the stairs. She’d come running, like she saw it happen. When I skipped school to go get myself into trouble, the phone rang with her name. And still, when I feel my world collapsing in on itself, when everything feels like a blizzard even in the summer, my mom can feel it. She brings me a blanket. 
Daughter, I know there will be days you think I don’t understand you. And there might be days that I don’t. But, I assure you, I can feel you. I can hear you. When you cry, my heart beat slows down a little. When you laugh, it speeds up. When you’re hurt, my ears ring. When you’re falling, I see it 2 seconds early.
There is evidence to show, that baby in womb and child bearer swap cells. My cells traveled to you, danced along with yours like they knew the choreography.  Your cells came and rescued internal injuries I endured, disguised themselves my own blood to give us the best chance at survival. 
Did you know, Daughter, we are born with all of the eggs we will ever carry? 
Which is to say, every womb in our ancestral line carried a piece of you for their whole life. 
Your grandma swapped cells with my grandma and my grandma swapped cells with her mom and so on forever back. 
When I say, you have my grandma’s warm essence. Her quick wit. Her way with words. 
When I say you have my mother’s memory. Her tenderness and take no shit. 
When I say I see my defiance. My empathy. My humor in you, it is truth. It is embedded in your dna. Pieces of resilient women exist inside the brilliant human you are. 
And in the same breath, 
when I say, You made my heart stronger. You gave me extra life. You taught me love I didn’t even know existed. That is truth. I have your resilience in me. 
So, daughter, I feel you. I hear you. And know that when I pass on, my cells will still be dancing with your cells. And you have mother’s intuition for centuries watching over you. Daughter, I will already be running to you any time you fall and if I miss the catch, I promise, the second you hit the ground, I will be there, in some way, some how. 

Angelika Brewer is a self-taught poet and creative with a drive to make people feel heard, even when she is the one talking. She has been writing stories and poems since the day she learned to form sentences. She published a children’s book as a child, about a kitten who’d lost his way and found a family in those who helped him survive the rain, all of which is to say, she was seasoned in metaphor before she even knew how to metaphor. Angelika found a home in her notebooks, and there she grew into the bravery that always existed inside of her. In high school, a gentle push into public speaking brought her into the world of spoken word poetry, where all of the words she rained onto lined paper finally met the microphone. She went on to teach high school students about spoken word poetry upon graduation, then continued to teach people of all ages and backgrounds about the beauty of being vulnerable. She began running Open Mic events and Poetry Slams in her community. Eight years later, she is a published writer, both traditionally and digitally, an award-winning poet, and above all, an avid supporter of the arts and promoter of creativity.