there is a stirring
an ache in the heart
a rise in the soul
of ancient voices
of women
who have bled
who have lost
who have waited
who have endured
a salt wash of tears
in eyes long thought dry
a tingle in fingertips
in palms
now empty
longing to cup
themselves
around bare skin
around 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 Revised 2019 Christine Elizabeth Ray – All Rights Reserved