by Alisa Blanchard

I swear I know her
  That wild ravenous woman
  Who creeps in the shadows of the woods
  And dances to the beat of the moon
  Like mud on my toes or stars in my eyes
  She speaks in a feral language
  Beyond our history
  Yet recollected as though
  Spoken fluently since birth
  Blood paints her thighs
  Belly, hair and hands

Caked with mud and clay
  From hours spent rolling on damp earth
  How mysterious the knowing
  Of what she speaks
  Without memory from this lifetime
  And when she raises her hands
  In celebration of life
  Sprinting to meet her next kill
  I stand in awe
  Remembering the taste of
  The sacred salty womb and
  All the moments in which
  I knew what my life
  Was all about.

Journal, Volume 1 Issue 1