The body as archive. As witness. As the one who kept showing up when your mind couldn't.

Body

The body has been the one in the room. This week we listen downward — to what it has been trying to say while we were busy with everything else.

Moon marked and touched by sun
my magic is unwritten
but when the sea turns back
it will leave my shape behind.
I seek no favor
untouched by blood
unrelenting as the curse of love
permanent as my errors
or my pride
I do not mix
love with pity
nor hate with scorn
and if you would know me
where the restless oceans pound.

I do not dwell
within my birth nor my divinities
who am ageless and half-grown
and still seeking
my sisters
witches in Dahomey
wear me inside their coiled cloths
as our mother did
mourning.

I have been woman
for a long time
beware my smile
I am treacherous with old magic
and the noon's new fury
with all your wide futures
promised
I am
woman
and not white.

A Woman Speaks

Moon marked and touched by sun
my magic is unwritten
but when the sea turns back
it will leave my shape behind.

The Body Knows

Write from the shoulders. The throat. The hands.

Her shoulders weep silently under the weight of his absence
Her voice lost in tears
Her hands stiff, stuck somewhere in the past
in his story.