Andrea Skyberg

I remember having a  deep ache

Since I was little

for a story

that told me of my matriarchs 

the greatest of grandmas

the holder of the seeds

I wanted to go to a museum

And see their art

their words

their ideas

preserved in an ancient stone

or amber

carved into cave walls

or left in the form of a 

well-preserved artifact

so I knew there was a time

before

a time where we were seen

and heard

and admired

respected 

and even revered

Where what we could do

was honored

and we were free 

to move

and dance

and dress

as we wanted

We could bask in our

sexuality

and be bold 

with our power

I long for that evidence of knowing

the way a zealot

longs for proof of their truth

But what if there was never a time

when our words were raised?

when our connections to the divine

were direct?

when we were the true keepers

of the curtain that rested 

between this world

and the invisible one?

What if our time has never come?

But is currently coming

and it’s our story 

that others will long for?

Our story

that is read as the beginning

the truth

and the evidence?

Let us leave behind

a visible legacy 

for the ones who follow

Let us be the greatest of grammas

the keeper of the seeds

of the matriarchy

Let us leave behind the artifacts 

of our struggle

and perseverance

and resistance

resilience

to what was done to us

Let them witness the fertile ground

of our power

that allowed us to go beyond our pain

So we leave behind

crumbs for them to follow

to know that they have

shoulders to stand on

and millions of skins

ghosting around them

with not a haunt

but a Holding 

and we will hold them

as they bask

in their bodies

and move in and through a world

that needs to hear

their boldness

their art

words

and ideas

without the ache of 

what never was 

but what is

and will always be.