O my child, the heart is a perilous thing.
The heart crowns all paradoxes of God;
made of muscle and steel and fire, but frail as the sparrow’s wing.
Women of Legend are not born– they are grown
out of spit and dirt and fire and sweat;
they are not a glamorous flock.
They have grease underneath their fingernails
and wrinkles around their eyes.
They have bruises from too-hard pounding upon their breasts.
They have lines from laughter and their feet are callused
from barefooted adventures and sojourns.
Women of Legend are grown out of the spit and dirt and fire and sweat;
their significance is secured in their steadfast response
to unimaginable pain.
photograph by Elle Moss