I found the lightness of being in acknowledging
the heaviness of my soul.
And mine is laden with the load of my ancestors.
Broken back with their watchful eyes,
They are waiting for me to manifest my loins in their honour.
Have you seen a father poised in silence waiting for his sons eyes to recognise him, his daughters fingers to grab his?
Out of womb, flesh on flesh, I made sure my hands were the first to hold my children, but their mothers breast before mine.
That way they know, their heads they can lay on her bosom, but their hearts belong in my hands.
Men must reconnect with their hands, with the massaging of a woman’s soul, to find her womb flowering, pollinating, inviting the buzz of his wings.
And women will flower, extend their petal to you.
My ancestors are just waiting to taste my honey.