Best 17 quotes of Beth Morey on MyQuotes

absence looks like a lake bed flooded with sky sounds like cotton howling tastes like tear-stained pillows smells like churning bile and burnt hair feels like screaming agony, my heart dying and dying

do you dare to step in- to the vulnerable black, stripped to the soul with human blindness – when the full and weeping moon steps from the shade of a tumult of mountains – when, in the fragrant dim, day's tree stump transforms into some nether-worldly other – when time's skin is thin and you are bared – when there is nothing between you and the Wildest One whose name is your own?

God, is there no faith left? He has not told. I would not know Him if I saw Him.

I am at the gates of my own destruction. (Or so I'm told.)

i feel the spring breeze ruffling the new-hatched damp of my unfurling feathers; i see with eyes bleary from egg-dark the shell clinging sticky to my screaming beak.

I hear talk of that slippery slope, and my heart catches for a beat. But there is the musky truth I'm standing in that I can't deny, and it tastes of so much holy. That old way, the narrow line, I see now that was a slippery, saccharine surface where my soul could gain no purchase. For the first time, my feet feel sure beneath me, and that sense is twining its way up from my ankles, racing toward my knees, my thighs, my secret places, my heart. It's in my blood now, and I can't deny it. I can't deny it. I open my eyes, because I could see even through my clutched-closed lids that the darkness is light, that the blindness has given way to searing vision. I can't deny it.

imagine the desert mothers, with hair tangled tighter than their theology and breasts that flowed milk and mystic wisdom. they knew how to draw the singing sigils in the sand, how to dig rough and bitten fingers into desiccated dirt for water to wet the lips of their young. women of hips and heft, who learned how to burn beneath the wild and searing sun, who made loud love against the star-flecked threat of night, who knew that strength is not always a matter of muscle. imagine your ancestresses, the prophetesses of the arid lands, before these starched traditions and pews too hard to pray from, who bled true ritual and birthed their own fierce souls at creation's crowning --

I stand in my own power now, the questions of permission that I used to choke on for my every meal now dead in a fallen heap, and when they tell me that I will fall, I nod. I will fall, I reply, and my words are a whisper my words are a howl I will fall , I say, and the tumbling will be all my own. The skinned palms and oozing knees are holy wounds, stigmata of my She. I will catch my own spilled blood, and not a drop will be wasted.

I wonder what freezes the flurry of hurt on her cold- flushed cheeks, if his touch is a salve or the shattering.

now I'm blinking in a new gloaming and all I see as I'm stretched low down here is a world of women flat on their frozen faces. we are the ground itself, corporeal carpet of cells, softness calloused hard beneath the pebbled soles of the fathers and husbands and brothers and priests and it's a horror if you could see it, a world of women ruined by man's fear.

she prays to feel as powerful as she might if God sang silent words into her ear and answered all the rattling questions now

the mind is a treasure trove, an almanac, a tomb.

we have forgotten what night tastes like, salted by full moon silver rupturing the dark. we have forgotten how the skin sings when the lunar fervor unfurls across its follicles.

we have forgotten how to press our fingers to the tilting planet's jugular and measure her pulse. we have forgotten symbiosis, that she is our mother. we have forgotten that when we rape our world we rape ourselves.

we have forgotten that we were born of celestial cataclysm. we have forgotten how to dance bare-footed on the earth to the cadence of our souls. we have forgotten the ritual fires and the acrid tang of holy smoke on our tongues.

what is poetry if not seeing and feeling, and feeling, feelings running deep and okay – do I see, notice the gray pigeon feathers that heave by on drafts of passing cars reeking, leaking gasoline fumes and okay – do I feel?

you say we were never meant for this vowed life, golden bands of only us, and death do us part. you say love like it's held in quotation marks, that this union soured before it started.