Open your mouth wide so the fem-fire inside you can climb your tongue and ride your breath straight into the rooms where attack-plans are made and signs painted with slurs are hand-crafted out of thick, religion-validated and institutionalized racism and politically sanctioned, xenophobic sludge.
Call Her to wake now. Bid Her rise on Her shaking, wooden legs. Animate Her with the sheer power of your will, and help Her to stand and march.
You don’t need my permission to leave this table, and I promise not to think you rude should you gorge yourself on my bounty and leave the mess to me.
Alas, you know as well I do, Sister, that the real prayers are not said in such sacred vacuums. Once, with legs spread in the final stages of labor, the midwife’s voice caught and her face went pale in such a way that I thought my precious baby doomed. I begged to every deity I knew, promising ...
To the lover who left us behind to go wandering, thank you for leaving a black-hole void in our bellies that ached so persistently we had no choice but to fill it with our own molten power poured straight down from the heart-crucible where self-love still bubbled.
The Primal Feminine is not pure, and you know it. Let’s show them it looks like thick-skinned substance and defiant eyes more than pastel wings and glitter.
The Wild Feminine is a homemade, potent salve for many of the world’s wounds, and everyone, regardless of gender, harbors some psychic terrain where this particular, timely medicine grows.
Squint and look at them close, my love, and you’ll see I’ve written the last to-do list you’ll ever need on these whimsical sculptures.
My suspension was a liminal space between life and death, and I saw the great mysteries reveal themselves in the Spider Woman’s busy work. I saw reflections of babes born and rock stars die in the black mirror of Her belly, and I saw the wild magick behind this so-perfect, so-flawed web in ...