She recognizes me,
reads my grief
and reaches for her phone.
She shows me a black-and-white-photo of closed hands
On smoothened sheets
Fingers braided across furry sage.
Then she takes out a grey feather, greased and frayed.
I watch her pinch the filaments in her fist and pull downwards,
roughing them up,
like she’s backcombing badly damaged hair.
She hands the feather to me.
“I like to do this exercise with women
who have healing to do”, she says, “watch.”
Her fingers slide up and down the hollow spine
Aligning each blade until the feather
Reclaims its shape.
“See that?” she says, “You can do that any time, with anyone who needs it.
It shows us everything
can be made
We’lalin, Maura, Early Rising Woman – rest in power. Nmul’tes.