IV

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 joy 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.