27 Feb Moon, By Kaiya Mongrain
Whispering songs will sing back a story of the ever-changing, ever-watchful moon,
If there is another so vigilant, let us sing it.
The light beams down, a spotlight on her crumpling, hunching form.
She awakens like this; under moonlight; shivering, crying, and seeping.
Her soft inner thighs stain a vibrant scarlet.
Her fingernails aching and twitching to tear the tender flesh of her belly open,
To remove the twisting, knotting, writhing red mass inside her and strangle it with her hands.
Whispering songs will sing back a story of the composed, comforting moon,
If there is another so nurturing, let us sing it.
Looking above into the black velvet sky, a pearl gazes down upon her.
The taste of strawberries and tobacco on her lips, echoing back to her primordial inheritance.
Her moccasins must stop at the threshold of the sweat lodge,
Her shawl may not brush against the pipes,
Her calloused hands shall know rest from any labour,
In the icy, cool breath of night, she is cleansed by the strands of her mother’s hair tickling her skin,
Whispering songs will sing back a story of the captivating, cultivating moon,
If there is another so powerful, let us sing it.
She reaches up, hands splayed out, with vermilion palms toward the full face in the sky.
Her lips part, and from deep within her chest, a song flows out of her in lapping, piercing waves.
Each note carries the weight of forgotten stories, ancient sorrows, and the longing for light.
Her body, both delicate and resilient, a vessel carrying the song of life forward.
Rising and falling, it merges with the wind, dissolving into the fabric of the stars.
Whispering songs will sing back a tale of the placid, pearly moon,
If there is another so beautiful, let us sing it.
A relic of skin and sinew beats in rhythm to the drum in her breast.
She cradles the chalice of her own strength, her own resilience,
With needle and thread, she drinks, and it sews her insides back together, soothing and reassuring.
The needle is sharp, but its work is gentle, stitching her open wounds,
Mending the cracks within her, knitting the pieces of her soul to become whole once more.
And as the thread pulls tight, from the quiet courage she holds, bound to the moon’s threads of light.
Whispering songs will sing back of the many mothers before her,
Whispering songs will sing back a legend of the first mother,
Whispering songs will sing back of the many daughters ahead of her,
If there is another so sacred, let us sing it;
Let us sing it back to her,