~Upon rising in the pink light of dawn on the Autumnal Equinox
Women we must claim it for ourselves. Not among them. But within us. Our worthiness. Apart from role or function. Apart from desire and beauty.
Ours is not mother or muse, but sovereign unto ourselves, like every being, and how are they to know this if we do not claim it first, we who each life comes through.
Look! See the man who does not know his value—he who dismisses the worth of others—spits on the lives of children, parents, the planet—while suckling at the golden calf—to the cheers of those so hungry for worthiness.
I am healing a deep wound.
Not the wound of my empty womb, even as the incision that traverses my lower abdomen secretes memory above my pubic bone.
Not the wound of my heart, these breasts that nourished the gift of two lives and now empty continue to rise with expectation.
Not the wound of the beds empty of the children for whom I laid down my life.
Not this month without the joy of our youngest who once brought so much color to this home.
Barren, I have not slept since he left. Empty, I have gone without nourishment. Lost, I have despaired for what comes next—my own gradual disappearance—giving way to the generations to come.
What will I leave behind? What is mine to offer?