MMMMMM, A Myraid of Musings from a Mecurical, Messy , Magic Matriarch Life

,  Slightest of breeze  Dappled summer  Lilacs in bloom,  Their scent carried softly along with delighted giggles of children, Only  interrupted by popsicle licks and waves of goodbye. Windows rolled down His wink as town flies by  Warmth of the dash under my toes  The gasp of delight when bra hits the floorboards a loving farewell Instant tightening of nipple as the rush of air a warmest of welcome  A soul song on a back road blares through the air The pent up release of breath, too long held,  The lengthening of neck, the roll of the head,  The wildness of hair, the deep exhale Miles and mountains roll on Sunset halo softens our edges  Campfire glow the last image of night for me   The tender roll of my shoulders and twist of my hips, All wrinkles, dimples,and smiles  Unsheltered from the dawn,  Caressed by the yawning rise across misty pines Salty tang of his skin on my tongue where his shoulder meets che...

  I inherited 4000 years of matriarchs running through my veins    12 generations of women: carrying loads not their own, cloaking tradition in the acceptance of religion, quiet labors, secret rituals, dimmed lights, nervous laughs, waved hands, solo travels, held breath and stolen glances, stigma, a life never exhaled.  Given labels and names palatable to the weak, harmless to lustful and greedy: Mid wife, mother, community organizer, green thumb, good preacher’s wife, caretaker, foster mom, hippie, granola, mountain woman, throw back, freak, rebel,whore, odd duck, church chairwoman, Relief Society President, prepper type, visiting teacher, educator, soldier, life coach, doula, one of those women Anything but what we are: Witch, Warrior, medicine woman, Owl Woman, Shadow Walker, Clan Mother, Matriarch, Healer I inherited ancestral wisdom and shame, generational trauma that our women uniquely bear. Unspoken rules. Grit, strength, pain, confusion, lonely paths, rocky ...

  How many generations does a red light shine before permanence ?  Does the scarlet letter become a birthmark for her daughter?    How long before I cast a crimson glow?   Squaw, whore, trailer trash, red-light queen, going to be just like her mothers. Epitaphs of a life not even lived.Their words fall like embers and ash on snow. I understand the sizzle and heat , but puzzle at the source of fire, tis naught I tending these flames.   Their pointed stares, the shift of their hips, hands juggling in their pockets, stroking their manhood, rubbing their egos, licking their lips   My questions have answers.  One or eight,  it wouldn't matter I am the daughter of a branded town slut, granddaughter of a whores, descended from a mistress and slave. The stain runs as red as my blood, our stigma, our birthright. No matter how many prayers and murmured verses find us on our knees, once again in supplication to a man, it doesn't wash off....