Dicentra Formosa

A poem by Imani Sims

We women who work
In secret emerge from
The mouth of our
Grandmothers—fist full
Of sage freshly bound
To wrist. We untuck

Our prayers from beneath
Floor length white dress,
Brown thighs sweaty testament
To our survival. We
Have always been at
The feet of Mystery,

Constellations at nape of
Neck-fortune tellers bound
To expanse. We swallow
Apricot pits for runes,
Let earth’s seed play
Tarot against our intestines,

Spit: bodies whole again.
We healers open palms,
Let the masses pick
Their rib’s place in
Gifted tapestry.

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