the mothers of my mother’s mothers
are rising up from pregnant dirt
hand to hand and breast to breast
in heart and bones,
in pain and hurt:
these women who are stories who are circles,
who are Holy Dirt.
The Ancient words of ancestors are sewn into the hoops of skirts
These people who are poems who are tangled in this web of dreams
they are wrinkled stars that burn in beams.
They are ancient wise who bleed on trees.
They are dead and rot, and birth and breeze.
They are well and healed, and whole and free.
They are all revealed
And sing to me.

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