Wise Women's Work
I need you as I sit quietly waiting for you to feed me. You haven’t came to visit me in months, I’m hungry for your touch, thirsty for your taste. The days have gone by slowly here where I sit, my body rattles at the thought of you. I feel our song deep in my bones.
My precious body has a story to tell you.
A long time ago, a poison seeped into my lungs, suffocating me. This poison has taken me without sorrow for that is what is effect does to my spirit. If this poison had its total grip on my soul, I would of died. This poison was beautiful. She was a mother of pearl. So strange she could pull me out of any subconscious realm. She would awaken my sense to wander, peering through blown glass I could dance to the rhythm that took place. She would only fight me when the night fell to darkness and it chased away my light. She took my eyes so I couldn’t see. She took my heart so it didn’t beat. They become hers and not mine. Her temper would flare like rockets so high in the sky it would rain hopeless anger on those who stood by in waiting. At times it was so hard for her to live inside me because she had to manipulate my palette for the things that I craved. Many times I dominated her. I would look away, regain my eyesight and gradually begin to struggle back into awareness. I was drawn to her. She gave me moonless nights filled with obstacles. On nights like those I tamed her and gave her purpose and would dig deep down to who or what was to come to light. The wise woman work was never too late to be done. The love she had savored was pure, its violent being heart expanded with every loving thought that was ever good within her temple.
Suddenly she transformed, she began to drink from the well of life, eating from the branches that reached out to her and she began to see her own reflection in the things she sowed. She cut her hair, trimmed her nails and quieted the beast. She sings lullabies to herself to pass the quiet times away. She remembers the cold streets, the empty nights, and build on the dreams she once knocked down. She has risen, after falling so long, she counts the hairs that stand up and wishes them all well. She has a name:
She is the one I feed.
Art: Women Behind Bars, KF