16700
The maiden, the mother, the lover, the crone
Stages conjoiled as if the blood pattern does not change
History of satisfied belief of helping their view point relieves mine
Sit with the mother and ease worries offering lavendar bath and rock salts to ease
Uplift the breast that suckled, pleasured, tempted
Feel consumed by opinion
Into dust I lie thee down so adjacent doors can close
A wolf cries from interior stomach a wolf cries to the produce of her womb
Shes wild amongst trees and his fist had tried to tame
HIs comments on morning breeze first heard breath
She paints bright colours onto stone
As her hand, dainty becomes almighty
As her love calls her fathers name
This gentle touch will not be so soft
When it falls onto her assailant from intervention pure, real and natural
It becomes her healer, her secret keeper
Her longing for the absent father, the unfaithful lover, the heart that paused as he left, the fantasy who reveals his all
Holding his death wishes she spoons Saturday soup over text message
Sends her spirit to grab a wrist away from knife
Accepts his blessings and blesses in return pictures of ample backside of imaginings of his wellness
Of being availble Plants bending until it turns into a crisp leaf and with many if not all women of colour she stands hand in hand with sisters
Who are left when the suckling is done
To wipe dried milk from brown breast to remember to eat
Make Taboulet, light incense and hum inside, smile with gratitude and bathe in rose water, add lipstick
Hope not for blood on nipple, harder the case the more the reward
Either you find me more free, exploring more or indeed I'm closer to the Lord
There lack is removed amongst tress in daily walk
Turning oil of the new he lies down she wishes her well his chosen Capitalist
Not in jealously green
Instead a woman of god of field of realm
Gold shimmering gold
And black so without question without desparity there is only good in that
Less stable less accepted, less seen, less promoted
More Queen
Forgotten not by the Cirrus cloud, the green bright parakeet, the smile from youthful maid, the warmth of winter socks and glance from Canary Wharf
Forgotten not of the scent of her own menalin cinnamon and spice
Held in the arms of the air, cradled by sea waves and welcomed to dance barefoot near mountain top
Where the natural world hums rejoice rejoice.
