Barbara Mor
I
white woman enter
the councils of the rock
she is dressed in the skin
of her people
to the elders of the rock
she speaks saying
our tree is white with
dying roots
I have just eaten
a bitter root
the young men of the rock
draw their knives
she gives them her body
a dry tree
II
and in the dream the tree
grows white
with death
and the year opens
to the silent knife
and the thighs open
to the ancient knife
and the earth
dies
in the hand of lovers
III
and they strip her
the dead leaves
fly to the wind
they say
you are our mother
our great eagle
they snap the dry branches
bone by bone
singing
our cow
our whore
tree of life
and with the knives
they slice
her skin from her nerves
her arms from the sky
her voice from the echo
and they say
for us you fly
we suck you dry
sweet is the milk
of the mother tree
and they stand above her singing
their tongues are knives
for us you die
we die in you
and laughing they slit
the roots of her feet
and she laughs
and cries
screams
dies
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