Mother Wound.
We are all your daughters. Daughters of salt. Sisters of tears.
Mother Wound—our ancestors of the undersea volcano,
of the shiny white island bordered by light. Women of an ancient ocean, evaporated.
Dead animals turned mineral turned crystal turned hand and blade
pitted skin weathered slough coarse bodies, forgotten.
We come from you your history your ghosts your rippling poppies in the desert
where the Eastern wind blows over your oasis like a benediction like a white night.
Mother Wound, why do we cluster out of your eyes?
Why do we leave a vestige on your cheeks?
Why do we burn through your open flesh?
Why are we salt
when all you need is
honey and lint?
Grey Sparrow Journal 