measuring, stirring, pouring
oils and herbs together into pots
in a round hut in the woods. We made
Lizard Creme, cough syrup, and soap
none of them, admittedly, a balm
for lizard-brained politicians
dropping bombs on our liberty
nor cures for the awful virus of hate
that has befallen us, nor cleanse-alls
for the filth of this new reality we face.
But as we stood there together—
seven women re-claiming our right
to care for our communities with this craft,
rediscovering our power to make
a simple salve for the cracked hands
of all the work-worn people we love,
reactivating our ability to brew
a simple syrup that will soothe the throats
and aching lungs of the women
and children who spent their whole night
writhing and wailing in terror or disbelief,
and re-imagining our impulse to create and
cut a clay soap that could cleanse
the salty sweat and grime of tears
from the weathered faces of our friends
so they can continue with their days
in some semblance of dignity
in the midst of such indecency—
I remembered something in my bones
a distant knowing not my own, but older
of how we have survived this far
of how we will continue
and of what can never
be taken
away.
