Hallowed

“This is hallowed ground,” she says,

“The taproot of our lives.”

My mom, her mom, her mom and on…

We walk back home to soil

we were dreamed from.

Veil lifted – our ancients arrive.

Root within root, we are trees,

resurrected.

One hallowed being,

a circle of women.

© Angela Bigler 2021

Photo by Shane Rounce on Unsplash

Young Nyx

I meet her on a street corner in Brooklyn.

Turquoise hair, smoky shadowed eyelids,

Dark smudge lipstick cigarette.

She exhales a dragon.

She says she’s dying anyway,

and living, and dying again.

It never ends, like a labyrinth dream

like a myth.

I notice the angry scars on her wrists.

“Did it hurt?” I ask, pointing.

She shrugs and flicks an ash. “Doesn’t everything?”

“What was it like on the other side?”

“Same thing—light and dark.”

Young Nyx ©Angela Bigler 2020

photo credit: DarlingJack Smoke Break via photopin (license)

She and I

I am the poem goddess and

I dance on feathered visions,

fly above my little self

and send down birdsong wisdom.

 

“One day you’ll be a goddess

full of dancing, feathered visions,

you will be a poem song,

a strong and brilliant woman.”

 

When her hazel eyes get wide

I know that she has listened.

My songs live inside her heart,

she feels the goddess rhythm.

 

©Angela Bigler 2018

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photo credit: amber10_79 Angel Baby via photopin (license)