Poem by Joy Huntington
The Qargizine, Summer 2017 #7
My mother’s sisters
Are sacred
Their children
Their songs
Their grandchildren
Their ceremonies
They walk with steps
More steady than my own
They have traveled far
Through terrain
My feet will never know
Some walked
Through darkness
Some walked
Through light
Each of them
Carries
A gentle truth
In her eyes
Deep brown
And alive
They learned to
Survive
My mother’s sisters
Scare me
When I am not prepared
For harshness
My skin fails me again
It is paper thin
To them
Their eyes tell me
My blood
Is made of water
Too weak
To hold anything
Together
They are still
So beautiful
Even when
I cannot speak
Or move
Or breathe
My mother’s sisters
Are sacred
They hold candles
To lead us with their footsteps
To lead us with their faith
They have fed me
Clothed me
Spoiled me
Spanked me
Loved me
Their tenderness
Their discipline
Some have lived through
The worst
And kept it all in
Some are open books
With open doors
And open arms
My mother’s sisters
Are sacred
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