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I sleep beneath a quilt

and dream of cotton, lace, silk,
of women’s hands held just-so,
the needle set, thread pulled
across beeswax or tongue,
stitches sung while women

sew memories. I sleep beneath
music made by women’s hands,
dream beneath a quilt made by
my grandmothers and while I sleep
they lay their needles down and
touch my feet. They lay their quilted

hands on my head, breast, belly
and hip. They bless me. What is
the garment of the holy priesthood
if not a quilt, a blanket blessing from
the hands of those who made it?
Who dressed us when we left

the garden? Who made the skins
we wear? I dream beneath a quilt
made by The Mother, her hands
moving like sunrise across an
unfamiliar landscape, her song
clothing everyone in light.

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