Who? Who? Who?

It is about listening. 

Being connected to the spirits. It is about listening. Opening the inner ear. 

Facing your fear. 

What am I scared to hear? 

They whisper. At night. Very much so at night. But sometimes at dawn. At dusk. At these pivotal times of the day clock. They whisper. 

Hello, 

there is a world much bigger than the one you can see with your two eyes. 

Hello, 

there is something above and something below that lives, that thrives. 

Blood, decomposing flesh. Blood, decomposing flesh. Blood, decomposing flesh.

I will not give up my writing for anyone, nowhere, no how. I will write about my vagina. I will write about the things that come in and out of her. I will write about my blood. I will write about my grief. I will write about the stirrings that sit below my seat of awareness. This all must be talked about. The body must be given a voice. The body must be heard. Write yourself. 

There is a softness about the coming of spring,

about the arriving of the warm air into the cup of my palm, outstretched hand, warm tongue, flickering. 

This all is to be documented, for some

future 

purpose 

some helpless 

geometry 

the design 

of my body and its intelligence. 

Grace Slocum. 

Who are you. 

Poet, activist, writer, speaker, leader, healer, teacher, woman? 

Who are you. 

Constantly changing, hard to put an identity on this person, 

she is a chameleon, a changing current of blood and love and experience. 

She is a maker of mistakes, and she worships them. 

I workship all of the mistakes I have made, yes.