"a Woman is ishmael's bane. gives up Her whole for the one eager to consume half; a name. a single Mother surrenders not Her story but mane. an identity that serves as a trail of guidance with each strand of hair marking water's grave. just as a tree reveals the part where dirt regenerates, Her steps show what crumbs of bread gave. starved animals lacking a land to graze. the asset bakers choose given a blaze. emptying dirt of its grains. kilned and paved grounds showcasing how afraid these loggers are if Her seed awakes. conscious of these facts She keeps the secrets of planters without a hearty plow agape. wide open readings of minds without a Mother's drape. dead beat fathers with a lineage of bricks seeking the one who, in the presence of wild animals, remains brave. She's the hunter gathering weeds for the sake of a tree offering fruits in children with an abundance of what eternally remains sane. memory in forgettable terms so as those hasty to plow are deficient of words such as save. reference points stored in intricate rhythmic storage bins that confused even their sage. fear of the Woman, yes, the single Mother dictates time by telling men virgin to manhood when they must shave. sacred grounds filled with follicles of growth guiding cowardly barbers through a whole field of Her history without seeing Her maze. the half that She keeps closest to Her bosom as a brace. first fruits put on a permanent daze. they stare at these words and see an empty tray hence their greed passes over without charting Her harvest, which she offers to the one that sees Her whole being and surrenders his braze."
mitishamba ~ jointed points of triskaidekaphobia