marching mothers, children of the earth, and dusty breasts

I see hordes of them, them mothers, marching, marching in numbers by the thousands looking for lost children to bring to their dusty breasts.  They seem to find each other, marching surrogate mothers and those bastard children hiding amongst the pools and rocks – strewn about – not really hidden – hoping to be found by someone, someone.  The first swaggering, rhythm of motherhood makes the children leap out of their half in, half out emotions – wanting so badly to drink the milk from the earth, the mother, one drop of sweetness to taste – one drop will allow them to believe they are the children of the earth.

There is no breaking of bread until the starving wee one’s let go and wail the dirge for the dead mother – hunger finally casts off the life latch to the decayed breast.

Without mother’s milk the beloved child becomes a blemish – a rejection from the earth – somewhere there must be an eternal mother?

Alchemical, shamanic, Jungian, and muse writings, by Tanis M.

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