And mother. I am. I am mother–all softness, all roundness, all curves and luxury. Fruit that is ripe, that is ripening–these constant reminders from my lover about the wonder and ah-mazingness of my being a mother, being a portal of life, being a nurturer, being a loverly lover–has brought this deep well of beingness to my awareness. This time of blazing my just-struck match into the dark room of my smallness has illuminated the expansiveness of my capacity–much grander than six-knuckles-deep, much broader than the space between tiptoed footsteps. This priestessing of beloved others, of my community, is dripping and spreading like olive oil over a thick skillet of water (cast iron), a massive and nutrient-rich container of this boiling, this bubbling-over, and the eventual slow simmering of my years and my poems and my sighs and moans of ecstasy. This is a gourmet feast in the making-something French, something creamy, something that slicks your lips like butter. Lobsters. Claire is midwife to this.
From maiden to mother, from solo phalanx to spread-eagled palm, from wilderland to village, from spark to hearth–there is a richness at work here. There is a magicking.