When I birthed my daughter

I dared to kiss the face of God

tasted the saltiness of him and felt the roughness of his skin beneath my bold lips

witnessed him blush at my touch

In this moment

I was his equal

more than his son

usurping the trifecta

I did not sit on his right hand but resided in his palm

for nine months I had two lives

one heart residing beneath another

It was as if I had placed a golden idol on my tongue

swallowing and shitting blasphemies

Here I was woman


young poor


too naive to be shamed/not blinking as nurses passed my sterile manger,briefly checked my wrist band as evidence of me becoming deity

now momentarily goddess

having birthed another woman

one who would not protest her arrival and whose entrance would not be resisted

She would settle quietly into her existence only


to dual herself for control of her feminine mystique

protest the hypocrisies of the devout and humble

from whom should she wrestle her claim to identity – sacred land – promised land

she did not need affirmation


the mother who remained unabashedly naked or the omnipotent distant father

I could not fathom

I was the same woman who had caused God to blush

and had resided in the unlined meat of his palm

For a moment he had turned from the son to acknowledge daughter

I was more than a



a borrowed part

I was whole in his sight

my daughter with the universe in her veins

never faltered in her being

she protested cold, hunger and loneliness

she demanded to be heard

As I pushed against the world – the wall between void  and substance- with fingers splayed and calloused hands to preserve our place

I anointed this woman child

with blood


anger – violation- frustration and love always love

I picked from the tree of knowledge and she did not cover her nakedness in shame

but rather picked the arrows hurled  at her psyche as lint from a wool coat

Is it any wonder that she is now

Goddess – having inherited the grace of that first daring kiss

Is it any wonder she is not to be supplicated with insincere altars of hands piously touching

fingertip to fingertip

not to be dishonored by mouths that are springs of salty and sweet water

Is it any wonder she now boldly kisses the lips of God

leading others to dare to do the same?




















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