(Women's) Labor Day Credo

We strive to avoid betrayal
of our ancestors
the suggestion that
we
are une autre
or somehow
cut from different cloth

Straining toward perfection
we deny that
longing
for umbilical connections
the desire for
fruits of labor
that will never
be dismissed
as not enough

Two and Seven

Before the life-blood-robbers arrived
thundering on horseback,
their demands
for our flesh
branded nightly
into our dreams,
we went fishing together,
my big brother and I,
the familiar "no sound"
leading us,
hand-in-hand,
toward the irrigation ditch,
all expectation and hope:
pockets full of paperclip hooks,
rusted campbell soup can full of dirt and worms
trailing a kite string
beneath the sun sparkled poplars
that flickered above
our unbent shadows.

Child of lost Mother

Her spruce limbs
sway with evening breezes,
heavens above
reflect her memories,
longing for
the one
whose breath
moved the clouds.

Her blue-grey needles
left hanging
in the space
between
holding on
and release.

into the fatherland

weapons unseen and deadly
buried mines intended
to nourish
survival of the fittest
we tiptoe
are maimed
retaliate with bloodshed
hold our breath
 waiting
again
for the explosions

Awakening

Even with eyes closed
the light comes
nudges resistance
bumps gently
against indulgence
noses its way
beneath the covers

Even with eyes closed
you wake with star-shining angels
and fairies
gilded dragonflies
and hummingbird wings

they flutter their softness
into every dessicated cell

as love
recalls love
recalls love.