Although the Poetry Foundation works to provide accurate audio transcripts, they may contain errors. If you find mistakes or omissions in this transcript, please contact us with details.

AUDIO TRANSCRIPT

Poetry Off the Shelf: My Awesome Stoma

Helena de Groot: This is Poetry Off the Shelf. I'm Helena de Groot. Today, "My Awesome Stoma." In the mid-’90s, when she was 11, April Gibson started getting so sick she could no longer get out of bed. After a year of going from doctor to doctor, the mystery was finally solved: she had Crohn's disease. But what would that mean for her? There was no Reddit community she could ask, no podcasts to listen to, no short stories or poems to read, only medical texts. So, to learn what she was dealing with and to feel less alone, she read those. It's dry stuff. Take this paragraph from a medical journal. It's about what to expect in the aftermath of the surgery April got when she was 27 and doctors took out her entire colon and performed an ileostomy, which meant making a hole in her abdomen, so digested food could be redirected into a pouch. OK, here it goes:

"After an ileostomy, the researcher starts, both the proximal and distal intestinal mucosa of the ileostomy show adaptive changes over time. Within a short period after an ileostomy, the mucosal thickness and villus height in the functional proximal segments of the intestines are significantly increased in both humans and mouse models." OK. And now, just for contrast, let me read you a bit from the poem April Gibson wrote for her own stoma—so that's the hole in her belly through which a bit of intestinal tissue pokes out. "My peekaboo belly worm, warm-blooded body snake, my misdirected snout, my body's new way out, gargling spout, belly mouth, tongue out, you love me so much, you choke when I swallow, breathe when I drink, my wet noise maker, my skinned elephant trunk." I mean, her ability to transform an experience through language has me awestruck. But that language is power is something she learned early on. Here is April.

April Gibson: I am a preacher's kid. And growing up, I liked books a lot. So, I read a lot of books. You read what's in the house, and I read the Bible a lot.

Helena de Groot: And then when you were reading the Bible, when you were a kid, this was not a children's Bible. You were reading the actual, like, King James?

April Gibson: The King James Bible. (LAUGHS) Yes.

Helena de Groot: Wow. And do you remember how old you were when you were reading this on your own?

April Gibson: I could read on my own completely . . . Third grade, maybe?

Helena de Groot: And do you remember what about that language transfixed you?

April Gibson: So, I think first, it's the story. The way that I see it is, because it's a book that's read by so many people in so many ways, it's a practice in interpretation and making meaning of things. And so, if you're in a place and you hear somebody preach about a story, and then this person says, "this is what it means," and I'm like, well, what do I think it means? And I would go and kind of see what other meaning I can make of it for me. So, I would read—this probably sounds weird—but I would read the Book of Revelations, which is terrifying, right, to a kid. But I thought it was fascinating. And so, I'm like, oh man, the world's ending. It's all of these weird things happening. So, it was a lot in terms of things that could pull you in as a reader.

Helena de Groot: Was it the fire and brimstone of it that pulled you in?

April Gibson: Yeah, yeah, definitely, that part.

Helena de Groot: Yeah. Yeah.

April Gibson: Like oh, wow.

Helena de Groot: (LAUGHS)

April Gibson: Yeah.

Helena de Groot: Can you remember a story that held particular meaning for you then?

April Gibson: So, I want to say when you're that young, your life has not done a lot of meaning-making. But I know one that would later matter was the woman with the issue of blood. And so, like this woman who just has this problem, and she's bleeding, and it won't stop until she touches the hem of Jesus' garment. And later in life, they become these ways of, like, thinking about . . . Why do people suffer? Why do people die? Why do people live? And why do you continue to care, right, or hold hope for a thing?

Helena de Groot: Yeah, I mean, that story of the woman with the issue of blood comes back a few times in your collection. And around that, also, the question of like, why do we suffer? Which is a big question, I think, for any of us, but especially for a kid. And especially for a kid who did suffer from an illness, as you did. How old were you when you noticed that your body was maybe not acting in the way that most people's bodies did, or that your body was causing you more pain? How old were you when you started noticing something was up?

April Gibson: 11. I had an issue of blood.

Helena de Groot: So interesting.

April Gibson: Yeah. So, that's what made me become kind of drawn back to what I knew.

Helena de Groot: And at what point did you communicate this with your parents that something was up?

April Gibson: It took a while.

Helena de Groot: Did you like hold it a secret for a while or . . .?

April Gibson: I did, I did, 'cause I was just afraid. I was like, I don't know what's happening. You have to teach kids to talk about this stuff. And I was too young for other explanations, so I just kind of didn't say anything until it got so bad that I didn't have a choice.

Helena de Groot: And a lot of religions, I mean, and Christianity is certainly no exception, often teaches a certain shame around the body, the body is dirty, the body is something to transcend. Was that language that was used in your home? Was there shame around the body?

April Gibson: I think there's a lot of shame around bodies, especially when it comes to religious teachings. I also think one of the most harmful things around the body in my experience is silence and not talking about it at all. So, I think that's more dangerous than anything. If the only conversation is going to be about shame and sin and never anything else, you know, it's silence. You really go into the world not understanding your body at all. And that just puts you in a very dangerous situation.

Helena de Groot: Yeah, I mean, and especially, I'm wondering, you know, since within Christianity, suffering is often talked about in terms of morality, did you wonder what you had done wrong to deserve pain?

April Gibson: I don't know that that's what I initially thought, but then you do wonder like: what can I do to make it stop? Is there something I could do better? Could I be a better person? Could I pray more? You know, whatever you start to think. And then I got really mad because it didn't work. So, it changed everything. So, like going from that girl who's like, yeah, everything's great. I became very angry.

Helena de Groot: Were you angry at God?

April Gibson: Yeah! I was angry at God because it wasn't just . . . I was more angry at God than my parents or anybody else, because my faith as a young person wasn't, "Oh, I like listening to these old people tell me what to do." That's not what it was. It was like me really believing in God, like God loves me. And when that didn't happen that way, I felt betrayed by God. And so, that's where that conversation within myself begins. But I was angry, but I still believed, you know, I was talking to God. So, (LAUGHS) you're not going to say certain things, but I just, I thought, is there something else I could do? And you start to get desperate, and it's like, "Well, if you do this, then I promise I'll never be this kind of person," you know, all of that. And I was bedridden, so I couldn't go anywhere. So, I had to talk to God quite a bit. Because there was nobody else to talk to.

Helena de Groot: Yeah. Wow. And then, OK, so you're going to all these doctors. What happened? Like, what did it take for them to diagnose you correctly? How long did that take? And what did it take?

April Gibson: I feel like it took about a year. The first doctor we went to—I have a poem about that—it was a terrible, terrible experience. It's one thing to misdiagnose people, it's another thing to dismiss them. So, we ended up switching doctors, going to different places, trying different hospitals. And we ended up going back to my original pediatrician, who was also a woman of color and was the first person to say: "You know what? I think I've seen this before," and sent me to a doctor she knew. And that's when we started to figure it out. But this was the ’90s, too. Nobody was talking about racial discrimination in healthcare, and nobody was talking about Crohn's disease. I hear about it a lot now, which makes me hopeful. But in like ’97, or whatever year that was, everybody was like, "What is that? That's weird. I don't know what that is." So, that just made it worse, 'cause it was no like, identifiable group of people who I could say, "Hey, you understand what I'm talking about?" So, it was just easier just to not say anything.

Helena de Groot: Yeah.

April Gibson: Yeah.

Helena de Groot: And then when you got the diagnosis, what did you feel?

April Gibson: I mean, it was some relief, because you knew what it was, but it was still pretty difficult. It didn't resolve. It just was like, now we know. But when you're that young, there are some things that you can't do. It's riskier, even certain procedures, right? So, I had to wait till I got a little older to do a couple of things. Yeah, I feel like I really didn't start getting proper treatment until I was 18. And I think that had a lot to do with me. But that also had a lot to do with what my family thought was appropriate treatment. So, which is a whole other issue. And that's the complication of where religion goes a little bit too far.

Helena de Groot: Do you mean that they also thought that you could pray it away or something like that?

April Gibson: Yeah, they definitely did. Yeah. And I, like, I don't think there's anything wrong with praying, but I think you can do both, right? And so, if you want to pray, pray; but you also need to take your medicine or go to therapy or whatever. But I don't want to say too much because I don't want my parents to feel bad about that. It was what it was.

Helena de Groot: Yeah. Can we get to a poem?

April Gibson: Sure.

Helena de Groot: I was thinking of that poem—it's a long poem on page 19, titled "How to Survive Holding Your Breath."

April Gibson: It's the longest thing in here, I think. Yeah.

Helena de Groot: There were so many long poems that I loved, and I usually don't pick them because when people are listening, it can be a little hard. But I think in your case, I just threw caution to the wind, because I love this poem. I'm going to ask you about it.

April Gibson: Sure. So, this is a piece where I'm talking about the experience of having a pretty radical surgery.

"How to Survive Holding Your Breath."

1.

2011. 90 pounds of skin draped over the bones. An old lover would not recognize the me I see. I do not want these scars or this strange body. I want to wear a red bikini. I want a kiss on my belly.

For 21 days, the doctors come in swarms, hanging heads to paeans, unless speaking, my abdomen a crater sinking deeper with each labored breath. So many visitors, one could mistake my bed for a box. I can't remember all their names or even all the days it took to get here. But I do remember wearing lipstick when we passed the vomit days. And then there are the fuzzy images of my big sister, tying a big twist in my tangled hair. And the now faint post-op screams from the epidural wearing off too soon. For nine hours, surgeons cut away my sick parts, five hours beyond estimation, and the work remains undone. They explained my insides are too damaged, so they plan to continue the cutting next spring.

Nevertheless, I am relieved that the hardest part is over. Being closer to healthy feels right, but somehow still feels strange. Will I ever work the same? Will I ever undress with pride again? My skin forever sticky with adhesive and the color of someone else's nude. I can never truly be naked again.

When I finally make it home, I cry at the sight of a tube top purchased the summer before, staring down at my lifetime band-aid. This is what permanency feels like. On the right side of my belly, I carry the burden of desperation, the things we humans do to stay alive. I live in a time warp of constant repair, fixing, never fixed. My body, working through the darkness that knows to fill an empty space. What is missing from me, turns out to be more than ulcerated innards that span five feet. There is displacement in me, a loss of the one constant my mind and body had for so long understood: a suffering. Though some may think, what I mean to say is pain. I'm not sure these two words can translate the same.

What I do know is that the first ten years of my life before being struck ill were filled with indoctrination that said suffering was a badge and honor for the holy, a road to redemption from sin, a sign of great things to come, even if relief was to happen in the afterlife. Suffering is then, by this logic, an oddly intimate act of faith, a response to pain. Pain, then, is a source of suffering, a feeling, a lonesome feeling, not an act, but an affliction, that when experienced creates an utter confusion of sense. A piercing touch can crumble you. The sound of your own child laughing can make you wince. The sight of blood, the smell of your own, can make you puke. The metallic taste of medication can make you want to quit. But the promise of prayer, a response to suffering, can convince you to stay alive despite the pain.

But this is all semantics. To be honest, I just don't know what to do in this new body. Shameful to say, there are days I long for my missing pieces. Some nights I want to rip this flimsy shield, separating me from fragility and beg back the burden, welcome the suffering, accept the bad seed. Shame can feel stronger than love tries to be. And I'm not sure love will ever be enough to convince me. I am worthy of the kind of life I see everyone around me take for granted.

My family assures me, there are people who would want me, even if I am not whole, though I can barely walk well enough to leave the house, let alone be concerned about how undesirable I have become. As I pace my small apartment, half-dressed in a sports bra, my family pretends not to notice the scars. My six-year-old son is afraid of my new figure, confused about what will be my new toilet. He has developed an aversion to small plastic bags. He sees one from a local grocer with an old tissue crumpled in a kitchen corner, and nervously picks it up when I tell him to toss it in the can. Only my niece is bold enough to ask why my body is different. I answer in truthfulness because children need to understand that people, sometimes, live with holes inside themselves, real holes or holes that only they can feel.

My nephew calls me an alien, weird, but super cool. I laugh and let my hands tell the story, making gestures with the scientific words. They all gather in a circle and listen. They want to touch me. I let them touch me. Then there is awe and question, searching for shame in the lines of my face, they find none. They look at their own bellies. The girl excitedly shouts how we are the same, small brown fingers pointing to tiny nicks in her skin.

Helena de Groot: Thank you. You were talking about silence. How did you, yourself go from that silence to being able to write like this where you don't hide from what is actually happening? How did you get yourself there?

April Gibson: OK. So, you know how some people will tell you things like, "Oh, you're so brave." Right. Right, right. I think that I do have a lot of courage. I do think I'm brave, but I have to say that the way that being brave works is being terrified and doing it anyway. That's what you have to do. So, it's not easy. It's scary. And you're nervous. And the only thing you got going is, you know, you gotta get out of this place, you know, you gotta get out of that silence, you know, you gotta get out of that darkness and you're not quite sure how you just know that you will. So, even, like, the "fake it till you make it" is kind of true. And looking at models for it, too. So, like, having people around you who teach you how to be brave. And, so, I looked to other models, other writers, but they weren't necessarily writing about this thing. And that was only once I got older and I went to college and stuff. But as a kid, I was literally reading case studies in medical literature, because there was nothing! There were like no little stories about, hey, this is what it's like to live with this. And so, I'm reading Job in the Bible, 'cause I'm like, well, he was suffering and he made it! So, it's super important to take over your narrative and to create narratives where there aren't enough. You also think about becoming a model yourself, right, and what that means for other people. So, the questions about writing about the body, which is super vulnerable, it could feel . . . You know, I don't want to make my body an object. That's not what it is. But I feel like it's a way to talk about all the other things that we don't know how to talk about, or that we can't talk about. So, talking about a body in a certain way is talking about shame. Talking about a body in a certain way is talking about love, or healing, or wounding, or all of that, right? It's the one thing that we all have. So, I like to have it as not an object, but like a vehicle, or a narrative. And that means you have to talk about it sometimes. Because I grew up in a way where bodies might be shamed a little bit or you might have silence around it, I knew that being quiet about it was not going to get me where I needed to go. So, you get loud about it, whether you know what you're talking about or not, but you gotta say something.

Helena de Groot: When did you come to a place where that shame didn't have a hold on you anymore? Like, how did that feeling come to be for you?

April Gibson: I mean, those things evolve over time. So, it's not like, one day you wake up and you're like, "I don't want to be this way anymore." One day you wake up and you say you don't want to feel that way. And then each day after that, you try not to feel that way, until it's true. I mean, but there's a point where you just don't give a damn. I'm like, I just don't care. I don't care what people think. I want to care about myself. I'm going to like myself. I'm going to keep trying until I figure it out. And it's my body, it's my story. And I do think my attitude about having control over one's own narrative influences the way that I write. I need to be in charge of how this story unfolds. And I know the way that it happened. I know the perspectives and all the sides. You want to know the truth? It's not always about poetry. Sometimes it's just like, what is my life like as a person outside of that? And I learned to care about and love myself. So it shows up in the writing.

Helena de Groot: Yeah, it really does. And I love that, you know, the way that this piece ends, you know: "My nephew calls me an alien. Weird, but super cool." I love that turn, you know, that someone can be different, but instead of that being something to fear, it can be something that is just "super cool." And yeah, it must, I was thinking as I was reading that it must be because you behaved a certain way, right? Like, if you cover yourself up in shame and if you get defensive about people seeing you, then you know, like your nephew would not have had that reaction, I suppose.

April Gibson: No, I think that's true. I think that's really true. I also think kids make the difference too, because—and that's why I end on children. Because while children can be absolutely cruel—because they're going to tell you the truth about what they see—they can so easily switch from cruelty to kindness and compassion, 'cause they're still learning. And I think that they also don't carry a lot of the baggage that adults do. So, it would be harder for me, even with all my confidence and dignity, to convince another adult to be OK with me, because they're carrying all of their stuff too. Versus a child.

Helena de Groot: Yeah. And I love that. And too, you know, like they look at their own bellies. "The girl excitedly shouts how we are the same. Small brown fingers pointing to tiny nicks in her skin." Yeah.

April Gibson: Yeah. And it made me feel better too. So, like, realizing a lot of it is—a lot of it was how I felt about myself, as you say. So, if I was like, "Oh, I'm terrible, I look terrible, I got all these scars on me." And she's like, "Look, I got one too." And we all do in one way or another. But this is stuff that just happened, you know, it's just . . . It happened, and I observed it, and I reflected on it. And even in the process of it, I'm like, I cannot show that I feel ashamed, because then this is going to change their reaction to me, even though it was really hard to watch my son be a little bit afraid. He's like, I don't know, how am I supposed to feel about this? And I just had to say, it's OK, it's OK, it's OK.

(BREAK)

Helena de Groot: I was wondering if we can pivot a little and talk about motherhood. That's your eldest, who's 18?

April Gibson: No.

Helena de Groot: Your youngest?

April Gibson: Yes.

Helena de Groot: Wow. So, you have two boys, right?

April Gibson: I have two boys. And the other one, Gregory is 23.

Helena de Groot: OK.

April Gibson: Yes. So, he's very much an adult. And then Jalen is figuring it out, so 18.

Helena de Groot: Wow. Congratulations. That is incredible. You've done it.

April Gibson: We made it. I said: You all are alive. I did my job.

Helena de Groot: You certainly did. And it must not have always been easy. Again, because we started by talking about shame, teenage pregnancy is another thing that people love to shame people about.

April Gibson: Oh, yeah, yeah.

Helena de Groot: So, how old were you when you got pregnant? And what did your parents do when you told them? Or how did they even find out?

April Gibson: I was 16. And I believe I told my dad first. I was scared of my mom. She's more than my dad. And you are not going to believe what they did. So—I know people are like, "Is this real life?"— Yes. In real life, my parents, who were very religious, sent me to a Christian maternity home in some random part of another Midwest state. That's what happened. And it was terrible. So, yeah, I didn't expect that. I was like, nobody does this. This is, like, 2000 and something. But, yeah, that's what happened.

Helena de Groot: I mean, it must have been really scary to be all of a sudden among strangers. So, these were, can I call them sisters, these people who were running this place?

April Gibson: No, no.

Helena de Groot: They weren't.

April Gibson: I would call them . . . I grew up in church and I know, you know, they're all different kinds of folks, but these people were pretty extreme to me. And definitely evangelicals, I guess maybe they'll call themselves conservative, evangelical, I don't know.

Helena de Groot: Were they all white women?

April Gibson: Yes, it was really bad. And I didn't want to go, but I was underage. So, I was put in a car, and I was driven across various states, and I was left there. And these folks were, it was a family. It was run by a church, but it was like a home. And it was for unwed mothers. And how many of . . . I can't remember how many of us it was. It could only be so many at a time, but it was a family who ran it. It wasn't like a convent. It was a nice family. They might still be in operation, so I just . . . That's why I won't say where it is, but it was a lot of shame. And so, I hadn't experienced that kind of treatment because I was around people who were my family, or people who knew me or loved me. I didn't know these people. And they were not part of my ethnic or cultural community either. So, it was pretty lonely and distressing, and it made me feel really bad about myself. And then we would have to go to church with them, and just everybody in the town knew who we were. It was like, "Oh, those girls." It just . . . It felt like The Handmaid's Tale, a little bit. It was like, why, how is this happening in the year of our Lord, 2000 and whatever? It was not a good experience. And the problem was, it was also an adoption agency. And so, I felt that they wanted to push a lot of the girls to give their babies up for adoption.

Helena de Groot: And did they try and talk you into doing that too?

April Gibson: Yes, of course. "That's always the best choice for someone like you." But, one, I wasn't interested in that. And, two, I saw the way that the Black babies that were put up for adoption were treated. They're not the most desirable babies. That's just the truth. Research shows that. So, it was just a really interesting and unique experience and made me even more frustrated with religion at that time. So, I was pretty much done after that.

Helena de Groot: Did you lose your faith after that?

April Gibson: I lost respect for a lot of all of that. And later, I found a way to come back to like my beliefs, but not necessarily the kind of systematic things that religion can do, 'cause it could be, it could just be terrible for people. So, anyway, yeah, it was a learning experience, and it was also something that I wanted to put out of my mind. And so it was what I wrote about.

Helena de Groot: Is that the poem, "The Draping of Broods?"

April Gibson: Yep.

Helena de Groot: Do you want to read that?

April Gibson: OK. (LAUGHS) You like, you picked the two hardest pieces to read.

Helena de Groot: I am sorry!

April Gibson: OK.

"The Draping of Broods."

1.

I think the bed has plastic over the mattress. Not sure, but it is small and uncomfortable. There are three rooms, and at first, six girls. They put me with the other Black girl in a small room on the left side of the hall, chilly at night with the smallest closet. Not as bright as the other two rooms. The sun hides from this side of a house that used to be some kind of hospital. There are alarms on our windows, as if stick figures harboring humanity will escape through rectangles with a pair of those cheap donated sheets and scale the brick. Or maybe we will sew the towels together after we unravel them from obediently folded positions, rolled the same way every time. No creases on top. Except we cannot sew, cook, clean, or do anything good and right. We can only be six girls with no honor on a second floor, funded by the saints, where we make goulash, wash dishes, go to grocery stores and church in a thirteen passenger van, like a small band of scarlet whores, mad woman missionary at all times by our side.

We make calls on weekends if there's anyone left to listen. All mail pre-screened, love letters tossed. Sometimes visitors, but mostly not. Live visits are watched closely by the minister, madwoman, Mother God, on the first floor. Twice in 120 days, my family remembers I am not home. They visit me, stay for dinner. We take a photo. My littlest brother touches my belly as we pose. They drive off and leave me once again with a madwoman, mother hen beneath, checking for swiftness in 12 steps above. Mother hen is with us on two, when the first baby dies, when we watch the other Black girl struggle, down the poorly-lit hall, crawling the walls. There is a rush, then a calm, and the pink matter begins to unswim her. She thinks it was a boy. So, we say, he had her feet, though really, it has no feet at all, only webs with tiny slits. But if we squint, we tell her we can see a toe.

Birthing a dying thing is like having God strike you from the inside out, like cutting your hair before it grows, digging flat follicles with blades, razoring roots in a frantic part and peel. She wants to grow wings, rocket through the drop ceiling and strike God back. Her emblem, a badge of dishonor, stitched across her stiff breasts, filled with unusable milk. She swings skinny arms at the air, feet still on the ground, fighting the sky as the madwoman drapes her buckling brown body in a bedsheet cape.

2.

In my grandmother's bathroom of absolute coordination and immaculate floors, I am trapped on the blue toilet, making a nest of palms, as if catching a small river will keep the ocean inside from spilling out. Frantically, I call her to the door, she calls him, and he shows up in someone else's car. I journey on my back, spread across the seat like a whale preparing to spray. The dark is blurred with streetlights and the lineage of moths. On this night, in the middle of January, the city is motionless, but my body is moving too fast. This baby belongs to St. Valentine, and I know something is wrong. I feel tiny fist in my body trying to squeeze and claw all that is in me out.

When I reach the hospital, they won't let me shut my thighs. The nurse's hand occupies the space between. She will not take her hand out of my pushing place. Something is wrong. Yes, Miss, something is wrong.

Her hand is holding the cord, so he won't die. So, my body won't kill him. This boy who will only grow to be a man like him. Her hands still stuck into me. There will be no pushing. The room is ready. This will be an unnatural birth. They will cut him from my belly. They will give me scars. They will cut and stab into me. I secretly hope they stab me wrong, so he will die. I want to scream to them: give this baby back to God. I don't know what to do with life. I lied. I surrender. Please, just give him back to God.

But the words stay trapped in my belly with the boy. God gives him to me. I stare at the tiny naked stranger held above the hole in me. Here are doctors, work praised for its precision. See a smiling nurse declare I can still wear a bikini. Then everything goes black.

It's the second day, and I'm still high. I see colorful, oblong people who smile crookedly when they say congratulations. Where is the boy? Where is yesterday?

On the second night, I beg them not to leave this baby here, but they leave this baby here, and I do what I'm told with my breast, become a breathing food supply filled with colostrum and ache, clicking a high-dose drip to the max until I pass out with the boy. I wake in a reflex as he rolls from my breast, down my arm to my hand. The floor wants to steal his brains, but I catch his tiny body, but I catch his tiny body. I save him. I save my son, my son. The Capricorn, who one night before defeated his own death, I saved him. And now, I want another chance to love him back.

(BREAK)

Helena de Groot: Has Gregory read this poem?

April Gibson: Yes. Yes, he has. We talk about it. We're totally cool.

Helena de Groot: What was it like to have that conversation with him about, you know, this moment where, yeah, as you write, "I secretly hope they stabbed me wrong, so he will die."

April Gibson: The one thing about children is—they're just better people than us. My son's reaction was, was that he felt bad for me. He knew, he knew—and he knows that I love him, so that wasn't questionable. It was, how bad could it have been that you felt like that? It shows that, like, I raised him with love and compassion and humanity, and he gave that back to me. And I was shocked, but he never showed any resentment. He just showed compassion, which says a lot about him, but also told me something about myself. So again, that shame is like, I'm carrying that, but he's not. He's like, "Oh, my mom loves me. She had me, she was a kid. Like, so maybe that's why she felt like that." And so, it was that moment where I kind of snapped out of—I snapped out or snapped into something, and said, "Oh wait, this is my child. I want to do this, but I might not have had the tools or the language or the time." And over time, I kept wanting to, and I kept getting closer to it and even still evolving, you know, because your kids change, you change, and you have to learn how to love people in all the stages of life. And I had to learn to love myself more too. But, yeah, it was hard. But, yeah, don't feel like that at all, you know, at this point. And in the moment, you think you'll never not feel the way that you feel. So, it's definitely a testament to how things can change.

Helena de Groot: Do you ever read your own poems again, as a way to sort of remind yourself that you've done that work?

April Gibson: I'm sure that I have, but the poems get, they become different for me. Sometimes I feel closer to them. But what I've learned, even though this stuff sounds super, super personal—and it is—I have a lot of distance between some of these pieces. And so, reading that thing with my son, like, I can feel emotional, but I don't feel like I'm back there. Like, I know what kind of relationship we have. And it came all the way from there to here. So, it's definitely encouraging. But at a certain point, it just becomes art, and a craft to share with everybody. And I think it's about stuff like, I'm not trying to make traumatic work, but I think some of the stuff that I've experienced is not stuff that people enjoy talking about. But it has to be said. And I feel like I know how to say the hard things. You know, talking about bodies, talking about Crohn's disease, even somebody who is dealing with that and who sees that in a book is like, "Wait, somebody's talking about that?" Yes, I'm talking about fissures. It's gross to most people, but it's gross because it's so different and shameful. Right. And you're not supposed to talk about that stuff. And, so, I'm not saying it just to get a reaction out of people, but because we might need to see those "gross words", or we might need to see mothers talking about how they don't . . . They're in the middle of having a baby and they don't know that that's what they want to do. And so, not just saying it just to say it, but saying it because something comes after that. So, after the surgery that makes you feel like nobody wants you, or after having a baby that you still are struggling to connect to, you know, what do you do next? There is a next, there is a next.

(BREAK)

Helena de Groot: April Gibson is the author of the debut collection, The Span of a Small Forever. She's also a recipient of the Gwendolyn Brooks Poetry Award, a Loft Mentor Series winner, a fellow of the Poetry Incubator, the Callaloo Creative Writing Workshop, and the Watering Hole Poetry Retreat, as well as a Vermont Studio Center and VONA Writing Workshop alum. She teaches English at Malcolm X College in Chicago. To find out more, check out the Poetry Foundation website. The music in this episode is by Blue Dot Sessions. I'm Helena de Groot, and this was Poetry Off the Shelf. Thank you for listening.