in
the reaching
muscles,
taut
strand over strand
to breaking,
burning…
faith –
dust speck wide,
without kin or end of tunnel light –
sparked anyway,
and The Work
of un-breaking The Child,
of wiping The Grown
from Young Mind
of blowing
heart-wrenched intercession-backed
kisses
against splintered psyche,
thankless work
wretched work
work of the lost
work of the mourning
that Work
long ignored,
long hushed
That Work –
Yes,
let it begin Oh Ancestors!
Women,
gather your skirts,
women
tie your waists
women
shake Your spirits
this Work
bring your hands
to This Work
Àṣẹ!
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