my strange bones

Piecemeal, a Poem

noreply@blogger.com (Heidi Richardson Evans) — Sat, 29 Jun 2019 13:20:00 +0000

piecemeal

Everybody is a patchwork
of who we used to be

We cut the thread
spin a new one
measure once cut once, twice,
keep remaking ourselves

Piecemeal
we stitch as we go
we embellish & accrue

New patterns.

Beyond Belief?

noreply@blogger.com (Heidi Richardson Evans) — Tue, 18 Jun 2019 10:11:00 +0000

In my new post at Medium, I finally get a story baby out into the world I've been trying to articulate for ages. I've been feeling my witchiness a lot, and it's empowering as all get out, but that doesn't mean I suddenly got religion. Witch does not equal Wicca.

Here, y'all go read it, then have a yummy Strawberry Moon day: Magic without Boundaries: On Freeing Witchcraft from Religion

I’m interested in the roots of the idea of witches. Hedge-shadowed women tending to ailments and creepy, haunted-eyed soothsayers. I’m into reading my tarot cards and kitchen witchin’ and being the scary old bitch who tends her plants and hexes the Southern Baptists who have no idea how right they are calling me a witch when I volunteer at the abortion clinic.

Diagnosis, Divorce, and Divination at Medium

noreply@blogger.com (Heidi Richardson Evans) — Fri, 07 Jun 2019 15:00:00 +0000

I'm writing some essays at Medium now, exploring some personal things that people online and in dirtspace have said resonate.

Medium's an interesting platform. We'll see how that goes. You can read several articles a month free, and for $5, buy an unlimited reading membership. When members (paid or not) give me claps, their version of likes, it boosts my stories and that's how I'll make money there.

In my first piece, Diagnosis, Divorce, and Divination, I talk about how the past year was Big Ass Transformative Energy as viewed through the lens of the Death tarot card:

And that’s the reversed meaning of the Death card. When it appears upside down in a reading, you aren’t ready to confront the major changes in store for you. It’s the face of stagnation. Of feet stuck fast in the mire, unable to take the first step.
It’s the holding pattern before all hell breaks loose.

I drifted through months that I remember as being almost completely filled with sleeping off headaches.But one night at 3 o’clock a.m. I woke suddenly, breathing in gasps like I’d woken from a nightmare. I was wild and wide-eyed and said aloud into the cool silence, “I cannot grow old and die with him.”

It’s powerful symbolism for me that this clarity came at the witching hour.

I'm really, really excited to be branching out publishing-wise and giving my writing the same ownership I do my drawings. I've got fiction brewin' too. Good things happen when I'm a healthy creature.

Fightin Words

noreply@blogger.com (Heidi Richardson Evans) — Fri, 24 May 2019 12:59:00 +0000

got a whiskey voice

got callous feet

got fightin words

got no smooth edges

got raw carbon

no diamond

all coal.

Saying Goodnight, Not Goodbye

noreply@blogger.com (Heidi Richardson Evans) — Thu, 10 Jan 2019 18:38:00 +0000

2018 was an impossible year. Most of it was too tangled up and private to share, at least in the real-time, raw-as-blood way I usually write. A great deal has shifted but much is, in practicality, exactly the same.

Aside from my family and household evolving, my inner life has quietly nudged just a tiny bit. My seesaw wildness is still a part of me but my impulses have more sensitive brakes I think.

I'm hesitant to log on and blast my ideas here until I've really examined them. I'm still mulling over the direction I want to steer this site, but the white space & silence were feeling oppressive.

Talk soon, yeah?
h

a poem:

Goodnight
---

Not goodbye,
but a stirring goodnight
like the lovely ache
of scissors’ dry rasp
through our daughter’s ponytail

Like my breasts
drying of milk

It’s the cool goodnight
of bringing in the dog

Sending the windows to bed

Windows with golden storylights
Reading and movies
in separate rooms

No lovers share
No baby
to care for

Even the dog
has been in the floor
this year of change

I whisper goodnight with
a mother’s kiss
to it all

Like her favorite book,
I put the moon to bed.

Goodnight golden windows
with respective stories,

and the dog in the floor
not best pleased

Goodnight to the twin ash trees
in the yard we still share

To the stars twinkling
above the street

With the lamp that glares
through her no-longer-nursery

Goodnight
fruitful breasts,
holding hands,
small scabbed knees

To a well worn marriage,
folded and dog-eared
and placed
in a keepsake box

with our photograph memories
of shared evenings
with the
ponytailed girl.

---
for shane, wonderful partner parent & fantastic roommate
january 2019

Spirit Board

noreply@blogger.com (Heidi Richardson Evans) — Fri, 05 Oct 2018 13:41:00 +0000

Day 5 of Church Goin' Mule's "Slightly southern, a little bit gothic Inktober" prompts is spirit. I made a free, prinrtable spirit boad. I love the idea of DIY ones. A trademarked one always seemed pretty cheesy to me.

Well, not always. We wore mine out in junior high and high school.

Just click to enlarge and right click to save. Use a coin as a planchette and talk to your subconscious, or the spirits, as your beliefs dictate.

Follow my #inktober drawings on instagram. (I'm @mystrangebones everywhere.)

Enjoy OCTOBER FOR AUTUMN IS NIGHHHHHHH!!!!

Good Summer

noreply@blogger.com (Heidi Richardson Evans) — Tue, 11 Sep 2018 14:14:00 +0000

It’s a good summer for shelter

if you have one

Stay indoors under the damaged roof

with its sodden shingles

if you have one

Make a wry comment about unending rain

your undamaged fair skin

if you have one

Sleep well with the sound of showers

on pillowed mattress

if you have one

If you

Walk down Capitol Street

you juggle a latte and umbrella

you have one

The benches are gone

The rain washed

the city clean

You’re back

from vacation

to your job

You have one

It’s a good summer.

Chimera

noreply@blogger.com (Heidi Richardson Evans) — Sat, 18 Aug 2018 12:34:00 +0000

I step out

of shed scales.

Discard serpent skins & venomous memories

all neatly swept into a dustbin and
walk away, head high & shining.

© Heidi Richardson Evans 2018

I'm digging deep lately, and through tough bedrock. I'm extremely pleased to have found a therapist who's actually making me question entrenched beliefs and very old thought patterns, whole systems of thinking and percieving that I've never taken a critical eye to before.

I'm bleeding poems, and among them are my best ever. I'm actually planning to submit a few to journals.

photo by PDPphotos at Pixabay.com

Poem: Holler, Dragon

noreply@blogger.com (Heidi Richardson Evans) — Tue, 14 Aug 2018 14:07:00 +0000

I was wonderin’ what’s a holler

dragon like? Black scales like garter snakes
& piled tires hot in the sun when it finally rose up

enough to crest in fire bright over the hill.

Raisin’ hell & mad as a hornet, liftin’ wings of corrugated metal
feathers--stitched in like crazy quilts draped over rocking chairs--

of crows, fat from french fries ate when mamaw’s too
tired for biscuits. Dragon squawks like them, fussin’ loud

& un-self-conscious like my old neighbor.

Shiny like stolen copper & hungry from the good buds
we grow, illegal, this’s what a holler dragon lives on:

poisoned cricks,

pretension,

meat grilled over lighter fluid & charcoal,

and end consonants.

I envied her screaming, that raging neighbor out

at midnight givin’ him down the road loud
as that practice whistle they blow in case MIC
bursts in plumes of lethal smoke

& writhes in the air so high

y’all could see it from up on in your

houses with the good view

from way up there, pitchin’ fits

on welfare queens

but sittin’ pretty

on fat stacks

of coal money,

kings of the stripped

naked

mountains.

Tuesday Noon, a poem for mom

noreply@blogger.com (Heidi Richardson Evans) — Tue, 10 Jul 2018 16:00:00 +0000

You took a last breath

with summer light reaching

in a hundred horizons

through slats in window shades.

It was a Tuesday noon

and the sun arranged

that just for you, collector of pretty

sunshine things & cobalt blue.

Seventeen years on and

I can’t breathe when the day

comes around, impossible still

as the sun

setting at noon.

——————

for mom, 2018

I Was Out-Gothed So Hard

noreply@blogger.com (Heidi Richardson Evans) — Wed, 25 Oct 2017 18:02:00 +0000

Gather ‘round, darklings, for it’s story time. Mama Bones’ gotta let this toner sit on my hair a spell so I’m a silvery platinum goth, not some golden-blonde normal person.

So I’m at the drug store with Bird and I’m buying last minute 50% off shit: black velvet fake stilleto nails, huge lashes, etc. Sahmain cometh, y’know? And I’m babbling about how much we love Halloween to the cashier.

I’ve seen her a lot here. Her ‘holler’ accent is mighty: It crushes my twang. That’s typical for these parts, but I admit that I’ve filed her in my mind as Sweet Older Country-Type Lady.

But y’all.

Y’ALL.

Heh. This woman... so, she tells me her fam is SUPER into it, too. They used to dress her brother as a scarecrow dummy and he’d be corpse-still until the perfect moment to spring up and scare the holy hillbilly Protestant JESUS out of trick-or-treat-ers. And their parents.

And probably some cats.

So she goes on to tell us they used to turn their lawn into a graveyard and she just casually as fuck drops the fact that her neighbors have a coffin they let her borrow, and even more stunningly casually she says, "They usually sleep in it," and blows right past that with no explanation whatsoever. There's no tone of joke delivery. Nothing at all to indicate that there is anything at all unusual about sleeping in a coffin. We finish our mutual celebration of Halloween anticipation and Birdy and I head to the car.

Mollz says, "So I'm picturing 'What We Do in the Shadows'. You?"

I tell her "Yeah... or those goths that goth so hard they literally live like vampires."

We then in unison say, "What the fuh?" and "What the fuck?" and giggle all the way home.

Happy Gothtober!

noreply@blogger.com (Heidi Richardson Evans) — Sun, 01 Oct 2017 21:12:00 +0000

You may remember my mentioning before that my friends at work mannnnyyy years ago and I always wore solid black on the first of October, to kick of what we insisted (I stand by this, obviously) was a month long High Holiday for Wiccans and general gothy witchy types.

Now I've seen that #Gothtober is a thing, and I rejoice.

So I went fucking crazy and did my regular platinum goth look and then a wardrobe/makeup change and popped on my new favorite wig. Also one contact lens, not in homage to the Weird Ass Uncle Marilyn of popgoth, but because I've weaponized my fingernails and I scratched one of the fucking lenses.

Can I tell you how much I love glitter tears?
I ADORE GLITTER TEARS SO MUCH!!!!
Also NYX Stone Fox Liquid Lipstick.
Love that, too.

So hi, I'm back, and my nerves aren't attacking my skull every damn day.

What Happened?

noreply@blogger.com (Heidi Richardson Evans) — Thu, 11 May 2017 15:12:00 +0000

Where did the poems go?
Where have I been on Instagram/Facebook/Twitter?

I have been hiding in bed.

As you do.

I spun out into anxiety and some mild depression when some personal shit crashed down. Then I had a pain flare-up that has seriously grounded me. That triggers depression, understandably, so that mild depression slid into a fairly severe episode.

Happily, severe in my case doesn't mean I'm unsafe. I long ago learned that my SSRIs are not optional. As long as I'm steady on them I've never been in danger.

I'm fighting the stirrings of a migraine right now, which I'm afraid might be related to new, or rather worsening, spinal problems. When I saw a spinal and brain specialist years ago trying to diagnose my pain, he was surprised I didn't have migraines because of the location of a bulging disc in my neck.

I didn't then, but have started getting them semi-regularly. I'm also getting shooting nerve pain (like sciatica) in my arms and face, so my current neurologist is planning to CT scan my upper spine. I see him tomorrow. I'm anxious at the thought of having to address cervical vertebrae. Surgery on the neck is much scarier than the base of the spine.

But I'm getting ahead of myself, because my mood isn't quite levelled out yet.

So this is my 'Heidi is Alive & Coping-Ish But Don't Worry' post. And now? Back to bed. Glowing screen is becoming The Enemy.

#NaPoWriMo 8 Kaiju Haiku 6

noreply@blogger.com (Heidi Richardson Evans) — Sun, 09 Apr 2017 00:20:00 +0000

Kaiju Haiku #6

Watching his own films,

Finds his shadow impressive.

The city is lost.

#NaPoWriMo 7 'All Attempts'

noreply@blogger.com (Heidi Richardson Evans) — Fri, 07 Apr 2017 18:40:00 +0000

Resist

Any words would be
Too flip. No way
to spin gold from
this leaden weight.
Bullets resist
all attempts at alchemy.

#NaPoWriMo 6: Kaiju Haiku with End Times Quotes

noreply@blogger.com (Heidi Richardson Evans) — Thu, 06 Apr 2017 12:44:00 +0000

Hello. I'm a writer who is terrified of a petulant man-child having nuclear codes and appointing a clueless oil tyrant to direct foreign policy. So I write monster haiku for the resistance now, I guess.

Kaiju Haiku #3

Not larger than life:
Smaller than he'd like to be.
Destroyer of worlds.

Kaiju Haiku #4

Don't feed the monster.
Do not give him what he wants.
He'll swallow it all.

Kaiju Haiku #5

He pouts and stomps feet.
This is the way the world ends?
Bangs feed an ego.

#NaPoWriMo 4 & 5: Kaiju Haiku 1 & 2

noreply@blogger.com (Heidi Richardson Evans) — Wed, 05 Apr 2017 20:12:00 +0000

Kaiju Haiku #1

The monster is real.
Toxic masculinity:
He's our president.

Kaiju Haiku #2

Is this even real?
The monster throws a tantrum.
This child is in charge.

#NaPoWriMo 3: Even the Bad Ones

noreply@blogger.com (Heidi Richardson Evans) — Wed, 05 Apr 2017 16:37:00 +0000

This is a trite nature lurve poem culled from a messy scrawl of thoughts about our symbiosis with land and water and the attack on same by WV and US lawmakers. This thing here, I don't know. I'm posting it as I like the idea and the rhythm, though I realize there's a rhyme missing and it's just a parody-of-myself kinda piece.

Whatever; it's about the exercise, not posting a polished gleaming poem every day, and I have to catch up having been stoned off my mind on muscle relaxers and anti-convulsants for several days. So, flopping this online and getting back to resting.

Something blue:
Sky is piercing
clear and painful-bright
this morning.

Something borrowed:
Breeze is stirring;
it holds kisses,
lilac scented.

Something old:
hills are rippling
Dogwoods white,
the hills adorning

Something new:
every blossom
carries promise
as if spring were
just newborn.

#NaPoWriMo 2: Wind Haiku

noreply@blogger.com (Heidi Richardson Evans) — Mon, 03 Apr 2017 01:13:00 +0000

The wind whips through the

valley tearing petals off

the early fruit trees.

#NaPoWriMo Preview Cinquain for Beginnings

noreply@blogger.com (Heidi Richardson Evans) — Thu, 30 Mar 2017 14:55:00 +0000

It's National Poetry Month (Eve) and I'm going to do my kind of annual poetry marathon. I'm hoping really to dig into form, and last year I found a gorgeous structure called the Cinquain, in which the syllables are counted as in haiku.

I've used a kind that lies in the middle of the types of cinquain: Mine is more than simply a poem of five lines, but I haven't arranged stressed syllables here.

Cinquain for Beginnings

Dive in.
Go on: head first,
Arms wide to catch all.
Let fear fall away like clothing,
and go.

I'll see you tomorrow to celebrate Fool's Day, which brings me such glee.

Downtown Art: Walk & Roll & Other Art Announcements

noreply@blogger.com (Heidi Richardson Evans) — Thu, 15 Dec 2016 13:46:00 +0000

I've been showing art again, inspired by Apartment Earth's Morsels & Minutiae III. They feature small scale works which are popular as gifts for the holidays. Since I'm only able to trickle out any visual art and the works are little, the show's a perfect time to get back out there.

I have three pieces still available. Here the two newest:

I adore Apartment Earth. The owner is a dear friend from art classes (and is wicked talented, by the way) and other friends are involved. It's the most lovely gallery for emerging and established artists. But let's be real: Running a space like this is challenging in a small town.

Nik's started a Patreon for the gallery, and I'd love for you to click over and check it out.

I've also, as you can see, created a new logo, on which I have a serious design crush. As it's crazypants season, rolling out new branding everywhere is not a priority right now.

There's also a new shop for prints of my drawings here, and I'm planning to make some fun designs for stickers, clothing, and cases for phones and tech. Probably. I'm (yeah; slowly) uploading new work. Here's the favorite print there so far:

Come by Hale Street tonight. The lovely art will keep us warm. Probably.

Granola Topped Sweet Potato Casserole With Ginger Cinnamon Sexiness

noreply@blogger.com (Heidi Richardson Evans) — Mon, 21 Nov 2016 21:02:00 +0000

Our neighbors, mom and dad of Molly's squad, hosted a Fauxgiving/Friendsgiving dinner yesterday and I was crazy excited because I had a beautiful dream to ditch the Evans family's traditional sweet potatoes recipe. This would, of course, not fly for our Thanksgiving meal, but with a bunch of hippies, I felt totally empowered to make a casserole topped with granola. I used flavors I use in my granola in the potatoes as well.

And it was glorious.

The company was as incredible as the food, and we all had a fantastic time. I laughed until I needed my inhaler. But anyway: Let's get this recipe into the world! Be very free with this. I'll go a little bit sweeter on the actual potatoes next time, and nutmeg or cloves or pumpkin pie spice would be amazing. And any nuts you like would work.

Granola Topped Sweet Potato Casserole

Casserole

2 large eggs
3-3 1/2 cups cooked and mashed sweet potatoes
1 stick unsalted butter, room temperature
1/2 cup white sugar
1/2 cup brown sugar
2 tbsp molasses
2 tbsp honey
1 tsp ground cinnamon
1 tsp vanilla, or more to taste
1 pinch of ginger, or more to taste
1/4 tsp salt to taste

Topping

1 cup crushed pecans
1 cup old fashioned oats
2/3 cup flour
1 tbsp molasses
1 tbsp honey
1 tsp vanilla
2 tbsp butter, room temperature (salted or add salt to taste)

Heat oven to 350°

Mash cooked sweet potatoes with butter, beat with electric mixer until smooth.

Beat in eggs, one at a time until well combined.

Add sugars, honey and molasses, vanilla, and dry spices to taste and mix until combined.

Spoon mixture into a 10X10 cake pan, 9X12 casserole dish or similar bakeware.

For topping:

Rub dry ingredients into butter and molasses until crumbly and sprinkle liberally over top of casserole.

Bake for 60 minutes. After 40 minutes, begin checking for crispness of topping. When topping is crunchy, top with aluminum foil and continue to bake for rest of hour.

Yum!

I haven't forgotten I promised on Twitter and Facebook to write up my take on the ACLU meeting last week, but that's going to be a four year plan. You might want to make a Hippie Casserole this week, so I thought I'd pop this online first.

On Emotion and Politics

noreply@blogger.com (Heidi Richardson Evans) — Sat, 05 Nov 2016 19:47:00 +0000

CW/TW: Mention of prescription drug abuse, misogynist fuckery.

I just counted my Xanax pills to make sure I haven't been taking more than I thought (or more than I'm prescribed.) I'm good—I've got more than enough until refill day—but I can't remember the last time I needed to do that. I've been here before, make no mistake. My anxiety has been severe enough that I needed to be sure that I wasn't overusing them, because I have abused them before. (When Mom was sick and after her death I acted like Xanax and wine were bread and water. And going back farther, when I was in college I didn't always bother to count the pills in my palm before swallowing them. These are stories from 15, 20 years ago that are now just context, thankfully,)

But that's how terrifying this election is to me. I always get anxious about election season, during a normal year. This is not a normal year.

This. Is. Not. Normal.

To me, this election is a referendum on human decency and American dignity, not to mention the very obvious issues of how we see race and gender.

To illustrate: It's 2016 and my daughter's female schoolmate conducted an impromptu poll on the schoolbus: "Who do you wish was President?" To the three kids who answered Hillary, this girl told them she doesn't believe women should be the President. My girl and her bestie were completely shocked.

To illustrate: I never would've imagined a year ago that the GOP, largely comprised of religious voters, would have chosen Trump as the nominee. I never would have imagined that Trump would have since the rhetoric about banning Muslim immigrants sunk even lower and gone on to a drawn out tirade against a Gold Star family. That he'd back up the anti-Mexican statements with racist accusation against a federal judge.

Yes, I agree that the revealing of Trump as a sexual predator was decidedly un-shocking. The language that was recorded was unbelievable—not the vulgarity but the explicit statements about not getting consent to kiss and grab and his stating with shocking transparency the exact crux of rape culture; that men with power can assault with impunity.

We know it's true; we just didn't know anyone was rock-dumb enough to say it aloud.

He's made a frightening number of statements that undermine our entire democratic process, he's insulted every minority group I can think of, and he's been disgusting in his aggression toward women in too many ways to name.

And the polls are so close right now it's just upsetting. And yes, literally upsetting. I'm an anxious wreck, and I'm afraid. I'm livid and I'm disappointed as hell in the country. I've had numerous discussions about why I get emotional about politics, and only one of those was with a woman. (She understood; she listened. And she agreed.)

The reason this question bothers me is that the measure of some illusory emotional norm is the behavior and reaction of straight white men. The people who are bewildered by my passion for identity politics are those who benefit from the power structures questioned by these politics. And they don't believe, generally, that that privilege exists.

So why don't you care more?

This candidate is a cruel bully, an alleged sexual predator who has many accusers, none of whom receive anything but vilification. He is—as documented in his own speeches and other sources—a misogynist, racist, Islamophobe, effectively a Russian sympathizer, and 70% of his public statements are lies. He wants to jail (not try; JAIL) his opponent. He has a demonstrably thin skin, and does not understand why we don't use nuclear weapons.
And none of that is a dealbreaker for almost half of voters.

You're goddamn right I'm emotional. You're goddamn right I'm angry.

Why does this not keep you awake at night?

Wasp Nests are Freaking Gorgeous

noreply@blogger.com (Heidi Richardson Evans) — Wed, 24 Aug 2016 16:00:00 +0000

When Wasps Are Given Colored Paper, They Build Rainbow Nests

I found this when I was researching how to preserve a wasp nest I’d found. I’ve made friends with some super chill yet tragically suicidal wasps. It was a whole hero's journey archetype deal. I, obviously, am the badass hero.

Early in the summer, the wasps would launch a guerrilla atttack. One or two would sneak into the bedroom via a small crack left from installing the air conditioner. Then I would flip my shit, as you do if you have entomophobia. And I do. A bit. Or I did. Whatever. Story happening... focus.

So the wasps have a quest as well. Their mission, evidently, is to land on the other window, and then hang out on the blinds until they die pretty quickly. I let one out by scooting the screen open but climbing onto the bed and tugging in a weird motion hurt my back and scared the shit out of me so now I am just letting them do their fry-in-the-sun's-rays suicide.

And now it's late August. Either by exposure therapy or Stockholm Syndrome I've ceased to fear the wasps. They ignore me and I them and all's well but for the daily mass bug suicides.

(And I'm sorry if you follow me on Instagram because I recycled that Stockholm Syndrome joke. I'm also kind of sorry for making a Stockholm Syndrome joke.)

SO THEN, yesterday morning I was walking Finn in my yard and on my porch lay a lovely, perfect wasp nest. It was definitely a present from my wasp colony. A Facebook friend called me the Wasp Whisperer and I am super into that.

from my Instagram

My research taught me that these paper nests can last pretty much forever, but I think it's going to end up in an assemblage or collage so I'm going to spray it with a varnish.

I'm so happy about this little thing. It was like when I find a lovely feather but even groovier for its uniqueness.

Goddamnit, no fucking lie, a colossal wasp just landed on my laptop monitor. I was elated, for how amazing would a photo of that be to include here!? But I scared him away by reaching for my phone. Then I tried to call him back like he's a dog because I am a wackadoo.

Poem: 'allmother'

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Wed, 01 Jun 2016 19:24:00 +0000

This was my favorite poem from April's NaPoWriMo project.

allmother
_______

Every mother weeps
and worries through me,
our tears plentiful enough
to fill the seas over,
then to sob when the tides
rise too high, when caps of
snowy melt tumble over
like the wobbling young.

Fretting over grey cars
wreathed in mist on the
grey highway, no lights on
to ease their travels,
or soothe my mind. I scold
you, my nameless children,
don't hurry so, don't run
and rush past Mother.

Shush, shush.
Rain patters down
and the tears, always tears.

Atlas may hold aloft
the world but who
cradles her, coos and
offers lullaby prayers?
Who wishes more
to swaddle you
tight, to comfort
each of you, every child
to cushion every slight, to wipe
the blood from your
brows and your histories?

I would kiss the curses
from your lips and lift
you from your knees
and chains and hush
your crimes against my bosom.

From my breasts I would
wash your rivers, those
wounded waters;
Would take into my lungs
your poisoned air and
push fresh breaths into
my children all.

Arms thrown open,
encircling the world wide over-
protecting and never enough
Hovering, hovering
above and waiting, vigilant,
for the next fall;
My jaw clenched tight,
watching you fight for things
petty and great,
drawing lines and divisions
I will wash clean
with a finger dampened
from my mouth.

I would bear you forth in pain
again and then more,
I'll labor for centuries
until you can learn to walk
at last—all of you, my loves—
hand in hand.