Her body is a palimpsest, inscribed
in moon-skin more prized
than the finest vellum,
a folio bearing gravitas on its own,
the way that sacred texts allude
to thoughts deeper than their words.
Hers tell war songs that could move
even gods and kings to envy, requiring
no bard nor translation,
for the language of scars endures
as the single, universal and inherent
mother tongue
transcending borders, cultures, and eras.
And every babe is first embellished
by the cutting of the cord, a mark
that remains for life. What follows,
every epithet or anecdote
or anguished soliloquy, is laid down
with a flourish or some hyperbole,
in a story that cannot be silenced,
in a book that cannot be burned,
in a tale that tells itself.
Where Spirit Stops 