We built a home of compliments,
but I am my mother's child. Guilty of growing restless and incapable of rooting long enough to watch neighbours burst through concrete and build communities from the rubble. I fashioned my own nest from gusts of prairie wind and mountain air. I let it carry me through glaciers and drop me into icy streams. Rapids and whitecaps raged havoc on my bones, broken skin bled into great lakes - I washed up on their shores, collected wildflowers and thoughts. Immigrant nomadic in No man's land, I weaved a new home of birdsong and buffalo bone. I found out where my spirit lies, not between my head - between my thighs.
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November 2019
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