Motherless Mothered by mgnola

_The Motherless Mothered_

Riverwoman shows me the marrow of her bones -
On the skirts of stormy Ivan, I hurry to observe,
Window of wild life, low flying heron,
Coming catharsis howling wind and rain.

I, by the riverbed, the creek I've grown to love,
White sand, clear water washes over,
Trunks of the trees over years have fallen.
"Like bones," I'm known to call them.
Settled in shifting sand, like a goddess' marrow.

I read the bones, the trunks, if you will,
Like tea leaves, or ancient calligraphy;
It's the WAY she falls that tells.

This specific trunk today,
This cypress woman's bones,
Lay low in the sand,
Half-immersed, half exposed.

This trunk offers an essential mid point,
An opening crossroads, a sacred joint -
Log splits like legs -lays her story out

In painful ecstacy, the uprooting
Is ultimately her private mystery.

The split in her trunk, so strong and solid
In creek bed clay, here is Woman Open.
Half buried in sand, exposed to ice water,
Rushes over bosom and receptive vagina.

I am urged to lie upon her white-washed bones,
To match her open legs with my flesh-wounded own.
I want to BE her open-ness,
Surrendered receptive nature,
To brave the ice cold water
Slipping confidently inside her.

I am inside her and on her,
A vessel of mirth,
A story, a myth,
The natural path of birth.

Through fallen tree,
Nature is but truth,
She unfolds centuried rings as proof.

I lay my naked body against her wooden bones,
And match my trembling torso to her stolid form.
My legs spread with hers, as Woman Tree -
Undiminished, so still, on her begotten throne -

Separate-ness impales me inward to believe,
Only human I am, always less than she.
Made of skin, blood, and matter,
Only soft and pierced with grief.

Startled and fertile, minnow dart in out,
Orgasmically, I allow the opening of self,
Accept the icy waters to pierce my sensual shell -
So lay I, cradled, rocked within her womb.

Yet, She, so for giving,
Surrendered to the earth,
The rolling river takes her
Contracting to give birth.

In silent watered stillness,
An old myth stirs and she morphs to Mother.

Though birthing pains are mine
And the grief expressed within.
She allows me to play and cry
Among her fallen limbs,
Make love to self in her mythical part,
My loneness seems larger
Than her ancient Heart.

Though a tree is all
A simple intellect would see,

I come to her -
For the unfolding she remains.
The Akashic record of her Fall,
She tells my myth, my story,
That was writ of me.

Legs spread in acceptance,
Yet stronger than rape,
Courageous is her opening,
Mother to us all.

This is just me alone,
Sitting by the river,
Next to cypress root,
This place I so remember.

The Mystery does not betray,
Her bones tell the story,
Of the motherless mothered,
By something more than memory.

Mimi Gauthier (September 2004)