Sister Peace, so-called deceased:
I read your flowing words from old journals,
how they carry me
from this nightmare
towards your old brilliance.

Oh feral friend,
kind words are salves,
I need you now

to begin again
to recollect
my blood thoughts,


even while in hibernation
to dream up
new possibilities,
while I am still here,
to remember
I'm alive, worthy.

What comfort it is to be known
in sisterhood, reflected:
wild she-gods, fearless reachers,
other possible worlds.

In the movements of even
these broken lives,
of which we write,
we are revised,
more resolute,
alchemized.


of bruised fruits,
concoctions of
pulp, seed, core

unfettered voices
sound, resound
believing in Life,
just enough

protectors of
wyld tangled truths
revealing kind complexities,
announcing this is our humane way,
with all contrary facets.

your silver words evoke
more jewels,

calling on my life
to participate
to believe in
a world worth
loving,
after
all.