She was born of no man’s rib bone
but of hip bone of downland hill,
curved recumbent beneath a scudding sky.
Or of the unfathomable depth of an inky lake
encircled by mountain girdle.
She was born not mute
but roaring her longing
for life itself, the very breath of it.
For the pulse of earth pushing wind
through high summer oaks.
She was born ravenous for the musk of damp earth,
drawn to lay skin against trembling leaf.
To push fingers into warm wild honey.
Snake was in her every movement,
serpentine tides coursing strong
through every sinuous limb,
she was rapt in simple seduction
of Sun by Earth,
for the slow dance of clay
under moon’s light,
The rapture of DNA.
Held in the fork of her tongue
A billion stars still flickered,
The Word giving birth,
This is my ancestor mother.
No cowed consort, she,
half lit by history,
but fire-fuelled star
down every bloodline
that lays claim to my heart.
Artwork Vasyl Mushyk
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