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April 12th, 2009 · 1 comment

 img: eden veaudry

a woman’s body takes passion as an offering unto itself, celestial and divine. a body near-solstice, born between planting and harvesting. a body kindred to fruit trees, as elegant, fecund, and quick to flower. the summer already held roundly in her hips.

it is she who presses her palms to walls, anointing doorways with a laying on of hands. she who revels in the tactile mystery of her imagined world, its transformation into talismans and iconography; postures for prayer; the canticles of mourning; the canticles of praise. it is what i touch when i cannot touch you – how, to the widow, his left-behind things become him. it is the fingertips of young brides on their own lips. the arm of a mother held over her womb.

i am their daughter, those women with uncovered hair, smooth-hipped and with sturdy shoulders, those biblical women of great strength. those women unowned and passionate, versed in the seven manners of loving, their fluidity, the grace in the absent way they lay their hands. those ageless women, gatherers of river-fish, born perpetually of the water, their lives an opening and an assent. (let it be done unto me as you have told.) their love alike to this love which accompanies my want and my waiting. whither thou goest, i will go.

and this is how you will know me, sister, among the captives:
my hair perfumed with incense smoke, how slowly i enter the vacancy of a room. my reliquary heart.

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