Those crescent moon markings
upon your palm,
they tattoo your lifeline
with the unconscious
narrowing of your body.
Your past generations
still etch their
hurt upon your skin,
marking out their
territory of trauma
on the very hands
that were made to heal.
Open palms,
open heart,
open up to the possibility
of becoming a passage for hurt
not to find its way home
but a halfway house;
a place in-between
arrival and renewal.
My mother’s body, a safe hold to me; a child who clung onto the soft pillows of my mother’s belly, her thick shoulders carrying generation’s worth of trauma... I could always find a cove of love withi
I am both, I am all the contradictions and paradoxes that form the shape of me. I am the heartache, the broken, the full and completenes. I am the ‘yes’ when asked whether I am healed or still healing
It’s no wonder we feel the ache of separation from the web we were once weaved upon and through, the tribe that knitted the stray threads of our pain together with compassion and story. Our bodies, st
