Eagle woman. . .

The words fall
like burning leaves upon the soul
of one for whom
the Dance is just beginning.

Eagle woman.
Wise woman.
Woman who spits.
Woman who pisses.
Woman who gives milk no longer.
Human woman.
Immortal woman.
Woman with God in her pocket.

Our mothers taught us how to love;
our fathers, how to fear;
and so we walk between the two,
translating each for each.

The Heart is a drum,
and life, the song
hammered upon its skin.

Here we dance.
Here we die
and rise to possibility. . .

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