Her.

Reclaiming what was lost. 

My goddess 

Long twisting curls 

Hovering over me 

With eyes like jackhammers 

Eyes like needles

Eyes like black holes. 

You are not done,

She says in a tone 

Too sharp for a blade

Too wide for a chalice. 

You are not done 

Becoming who you are.

I cannot help that I forgot;

That womanhood was the flower 

To bloom of my seed; 

That a little bit of Lolita lipstick 

Could bring my soul alive;

That somewhere in me 

Hid the whispers of water bearers 

And funeral tenders,

The soft glow of moon 

And tinkle of stream,

The valley to my mountain 

The sensation of joy 

That comes with the recognition of beauty 

A pinecone atop a crystal 

A stump on a glass dish 

A rope of white lights 

Strewn in circles, 

A band of wildflowers 

Wrapped in bows. 

Somewhere in me, 

According to the mother, 

Bubbled some ancient spring 

Waiting to burst 

To flow 

To dance among the reeds 

And the trees 

And cherry blossoms, 

To croak 

And sing 

And cry until the evening 

Fell to silence 

And the soft underbelly of my being 

Made herself known.

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