The day that Jesus rose,
we rose, too,
forgotten she-gods,
our journey unmentioned,
following the female footsteps before us,
breaking bread and bleeding into the Earth.
Our rods and staffs do not part oceans,
but we carry the weight of living and dying
between our legs.
We carry the soul of our sister gods,
the ebb and the flow in our bodies are known,
whispered secrets of the sister kin.
We are mystics,
our splintered hands guide the cloth that covers,
We are mothers,
our pilgrimage never ends,
we rose and we will rise again.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Please include your name, friend.