There is a stirring

an ache in the heart

in depths that defy

known space


A rise in the soul

of ancient voices

of the women

who have bled

who have lost

who have waited

who have endured

Salt wash of tears

in eyes long thought dry


in fingertips

in palms

now empty

longing to cup


on bare skin

on malleable clay

mold the world

into new shapes

where every breath

is not a knife

where the past

is not inscribed on bone

where she remembers

how to dance

among the stars


© 2017 Christine Elizabeth Ray – All rights Reserved


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