When the sky is low enough to touch
I spread thunder through my webbed hands
& use the fortune telling of my sisters
to create an oracle. We tumble through
prayers and revelations—
trials of pain and fear keep women moving.
We all walk in the same direction so the earth
turns and we can find our way.
Monthly I bleed, it’s the easiest form of dowsing.
Building up my water soul with stone and moss
Any piece I can find of my own bone.
My children ask me where I’ve been
With my hands of soot and ash, my eye of molten gold
Burns cover my cheeks from it spilling
like candlewax off my chin.
This is how my breasts were gilded.
My children grow with weary tongues,
So like our mothers and fathers, their fingerprints
ingrained on our skin in bruises that never warp
we wrap our stained hands around their throats
we cross our fingers, we paint their faces
with the remnants of the people we have burned.
We feed them hearts, livers, and lungs.
Our children are not repentant, as we are not repentant:
My empty left eye socket remains
I am allmother.
We burn the foliage of unknown lands and
Slit the throats of silent sirens across the frozen sea
We want more, we will have more
We do not colonize
We pillage and remove.
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ryn weil is a soot covered snow creature who spends most of her time with bees. her poetry has been published in The Rising Phoenix Review, Moonchild Magazine, and Occulum among others. you can follow her at @snow_and_soot