I birthed myself from soils unclean,

dark European soils;

the whispers of aes sídhe 

loud and then hushed,

hushed, hushed -an infant's 

memory of mother's touch.

I drank from the water the lotus flowers held in 

their many arms, long and ancient.

 

I broke through 

the language barrier.

Turned the chili pepper 

over my tongue and danced.

Rolled each rosary bead 

over my lips and lowered 

my ghost chili flesh,

as the oak roots that ran through became,

if anything, 

the knot to tether my soul.

 

I found my mother and other mothers 

whose names I only knew to be mother 

in another tongue that did not fit my mouth;

could not breathe it out in any mother tongue,

so sticky with the juice of Eden's dying fruit.

 

I dip my wrists low in lotus blossoms, 

draw them down to my moon, full and tethered;

witch child's blood bright and waning, and drink

a swollen mouthful of mother's name, 

more ancient than any sin flesh can uproot.