her

first you have to gather your mother’s shadows
perhaps they are buried in the garden
or tangled in the shower drain
my mother keeps hers in a big cedar chest
at the end of her king-sized bed
when I stuck my hand inside
I felt the acrid electricity of dreams postponed
smelled the brine of a sleeping woman
and I pulled on the grey thread of her
until I had enough to make something new

then you have to spin your mother’s shadows
into something wild
something that will brave all weather
and endure history
you have to remember what storms
have been left still hungry
then weave in the nourishment
of ancestor bones and spirits
until you have shelter
to last

and still this will not be enough
still you will crawl into the night
with lovers who offer you water
but cannot quell your womb
for deserts and deserts
you will remain parched
and the sun will feel like an anvil
bearing down on your hope
until, oh sweet purple of dusk
of mirth and blood-games

you will dance

with all your lovely faces
with your rain and laughter
your hunger and caution
you will dance her out of you
trembling and tepid
a madwoman
will rise up from the ash of her own
and begin to craft the dawn anew