I thought I was dead, she kept repeating.
Only the wrong ones paid any attention.
A policeman spotted the pile of rags
and bundled her off to the hospital.
To pay for a room in a dormitory,
she put on a uniform and knelt before shelves,
counting cans as she stacked. A sort of chant.
A reminder of an existence she could not place.
In Spring, she fingered the new-formed leaves,
and watched the curling of bark into scrolls.
One evening she opened a room-mate’s book
and wept at the sight of her own name.
We, the co-editors, contributors, and advisers, have started the Mago Web (Cross-cultural Goddess Web) to rekindle old Gynocentric Unity in our time. Now YOU can help us raise this torch high to the Primordial Mountain Home (Our Mother Earth Herself) wherein everyone is embraced in WE. There are…
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