Placentas, heavy, dark, and sweet with blood. Every tribe (save ours) has its rituals. And Mary, would she have buried His there, Cradled underneath a swaying date palm, Eventually to disappear into dust?
Our mothers are the first teachers of love, Nourishing with matter and with spirit.
Even Jesus, suckling Mary's breast Absorbed the wisdom of a warm body, Rushing forward toward divinity, Till at His end, we would all come to know, Here, now, all we can offer is kindness.
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