Palettal Prose: Calling Wild

     I call to the North, to the

darkness that corrupts and

buries, poisoning the daylight.

    I call to the South, to the 

fires that lick and burn, guitless

and harsh.

I call to the East, to madness

that masquerades as truth

without apology.

     I call to the West, to storms

that torment and roil, ravaging

everything in their path.

Come close, bear witness

As I dig deep in the mud and

Press it softly to my skin.

I am the darkness

I am utter failure.

I am unredeemed loss.

I am forgetting and forgotten.

I am unbearable weakness.

I am the fire.

I am dark passion.

I am biter and angry.

I am mistake made over

and over without regret.

I am unsatiated desire.

I am great hungering flesh.

I am the madness.

I am babbling and confused.

I refuse to follow.

I do not know the way

and will not ask.

I imagine things

that cannot be seen,

and believe in things

I cannot prove.

I am the storm.

I am always,

always,

ALWAYS TOO LOUD.

I am rough.

I am fierce.

I refuse to keep to small.

I am messy and wicked and

I am big, soft, round,

unrepentant flesh.

Come to me, sisters.

I am foul-tempered,

arrogant,

selfish

and rude.

Come together

there’s trouble to brew.

~Katharine Saunders, We’Moon

Palettal Prose: Blanket of Miracles

I stand on a blanket of miracles.                                  skin and spirit,

I drum.

I am strange stuff and dark magic:

broken bones and black feathers,                                I stand on my blanket of

chants, fire, wood and                                                    miracles

so many tears.                                                                   and dance, singing

Tears like drops of moonlight                                       I am

along an evergreen path.                                               the blood of my mothers,

I am soft kisses and slick touch,                                  dangerous knowledge,

heavy and round,                                                              fire and water and 

like my grandmother.                                                     salted bread.

I arch,

reciting fever prayers                                                       I come to this place

to old forest gods,                                                             to remember my beginning.

breathing the rhythm,                                                    I come to this place

and giving birth to the world                                        to honor my end.

Then I curl up

This is no spell.                                                                on my blanket of miracles,

I am deep memories and                                                exhausted,

lies long forgiven.                                                            to dream my daughters

With tongue and teeth,                                                  into being.

~Katharine Saunders, from We’Moon