We hold each other through the pain of realizing we’re not alone.
Battered and restored. In birth and without capacity to release the ones we mourn.
Too much blood. Not enough or nothing at all.
The betrayal of our bodies without evidence and the silent recollection of how that destroys — as we provide comfort and hope.
Sacrifices are never such when our need to protect and be protected override the system of lawlessness.
We give more than we get. We see less than we imagined. We use our knees as transport for the hopes and fears that cower over us. We recognize the callousness of our time and yet suit up and claim the pennies for labor expelled.
Our ripe instruments speak for us as painted lips peruse the meaning of our destiny.
This woman’s work is never done. And won’t be achieved alone.
But when we converge in all the makings of our intricate construction — it’s delightfully messy.
And remains never to be clean.