ancestral spirits don’t chatter or chirp
they are in your own low voice
as if your heart had lips
as if your stoic stomach had choices
not to lurch at every flinch
as if your spleen knew the time
as if your liver knew the score
my womb speaks for me in a dialect I can now understand – it knows its place, no longer trying to govern me in my rebellious state
standing stones
split stones
green and amber, get ready and go