In between the acts of routine and a hard-lined schedule, my body becomes numb. I hold a series of thoughts that refuse to reveal moments of clarity. The body cannot find rest and the mind roams. To quiet the noise she writes, she goes back in time, for her body holds onto what she can’t understand.
These days I whisper hard to hear truths.
I alter time so my eyes bear witness to hidden atrocities.
Daringly, I move through space holding and releasing the stories of exiled women.
To the brave souls occupying space in Sudan, Palestine, and Ukraine:
It may seem as though your fight for a free life goes unnoticed, misunderstood, or not heard at all. Yet, we see you fighting, we hear your piercing cries for freedom that ring as loudly as church bells on Sunday morning.
These days I dream of running the 8,397 miles to Sudan, walking the 6,414 miles to Ukraine
Or crawling the 7,562 miles into Palestine to hold hands with those faces who go unseen.
I see the bloody face of an old woman shouting out her husband’s name.
I hear the howling cries of the mother holding the remains of her daughter as blood runs down the crowded street.
These days I hold onto the voice of the little girl who stands in rubble as she talks into a camera about her hopes and dreams for the future of her country.
I pray for the woman dancing in the streets holding the ‘Free Palestine’ cardboard poster proudly above her head.
I understand having less, fearing tomorrow, and surviving today.
Tonight I do not light a candle in memory of those who have passed.
I shall not shed a tear for the unspoken names whose bodies go unclaimed.
Instead, I’ll write, create, and move to remember your profound ability to continue toward the light.
____________
‘Quay’ she called with her soft melodious voice bringing familiar comfort.
I knew Her right away //
This delicate yet statuesque woman of bold proportions…
her smooth skin as clear as the midnight sky.
She—the woman whose hands had rubbed my back while soothing my soul night after night |
days not so long ago.
Me—A woman child still in need of her mother’s touch.
A woman child still needing to hear her mother’s patio chime laughter.
Her She Me //
Mother
Daughter
Strangers.
Or perhaps
long-
lost friends
_________
*A note from within:
Finding the work is living between trust and letting go.
