Last night I dreamt of a woman who birthed her knowledge with wide hips and a womb that ovulated only in her country. Nested in the juncture of her supple legs, oiled from sweat and labor, were the twisted limbs of a Narra tree. Where birds with flightless wings made of paper maché lapped at their saltiness. She smelled of soil and secrets that echoed with the refrain of abandoned tongues, Risen from a century's worth of harvest, sinking deep into her lush folds that cried even when they were open. Especially when they were open. But her body cradled the sound. The roots too deep to hear them. And in the late afternoon, I rose from the daydream of my father’s province, wondering how I had been born from his dirt but planted far from the branches that blossomed into fruits, sweet as my Grandmother.
From: Vol.10 N.01 – Private: The Transformative Now
by Via Justine De Fant