what of these chapels perilous or not that were built on the charred bodies of women – chapels that harnessed and yoked the prayers of the earth in service of a sky god that knew nothing of women like volcanoes who burned with the making of mountains long before these insipid fires licked them…
don’t speak to me about sweet annihilation, about a love, a god that obliterates when we have lived this perfect obliteration our bodies counting moons and seasons – barely able to contain the exuberance of bird song in spring and the quiet perfect longing of winters’ dark night. for generations we have thrown our bones…
daughters of the moon, daughters of the hills, daughters of our grandmother’s grandmother’s grandmothers, it is too long we have dwelled in the house of men fearing our power would scare them, letting our power scare us. daughters of the earth, love would never ask you to be less than you are, and if that…
a beaten woman cannot fall cannot slip on the polished floor cannot slam her face on the corner of a wall a beaten woman cannot fall. don’t look away her body and bones will spit her story amongst broken bits of teeth even when fear has made her mute even when lies have made her…
it is hard to look into the face of love never returned hard to look away hard to know what of herself she has yielded what of herself she has set aside to be here. today there are only half sentences she leaves her fingers to walk the story across the counter between us, picking…
i nearly forgot up there on the hill wind blustered and sun drunk on mist breath and endless ocean, nearly forgot my solidity of bone and lack of wing. nearly remembered flight.
it never mattered what it said in those books. it never mattered that we moved on, that we tore out those pages, blacked the ink, burned them, reprinted cleansed on new paper from new trees the same old stories new told. what mattered is what we could not unhear. it was in songs that…