First Place, Poetry

 

Shatter, Ember, Whisper, Crimson, Unravel, Reckon 

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Harvest Keening, by Kristie Post Wallace

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My foremother is a wheel 

that turns like the year, 

gathering embers into 

the next season’s bonfires 

​

spark 

flame 

ember 

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Her hands whisper sheep’s wool 

into thread that ties the seasons

together as they turn 

​

fall 

winter 

spring 

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Her body laid to rest after unraveling, 

shattering the earth for the Danu, 

she created agriculture for them 

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plant 

grow 

harvest 

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Wheat tears are thrashed, grain 

bursts from the stalks 

the mortar and pestle 

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circle 

circle 

grind from 

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Seed to flour to dough to bread 

to gathering, grateful around abundant, 

life-giving sustenance 

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labor 

creation 

gratitude 

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Now I search for my ancestresses 

I ache to reckon with the loss 

of ritual, of place, of deep connection to earth 

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searching 

wailing 

keening

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She was harvested, ripped 

from her homeland, planted 

halfway around the turning world 

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ripped 

scattered 

transplanted 

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Her crimson apron, now tied

tightly as she replanted in a new land, 

is stained with earth, songs, weeds, pain 

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blood 

sweat 

tears 

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Did I receive the pull to look

back while turning forward

from her? 

Ancestral trauma, twisted in my DNA

 

backward 

turn 

forward 

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When I sing folk songs and

honor goddesses and press

the dough I sing, honor, and

re-form 

HER 

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voice 

ritual 

calling 

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August 1st, Lughnasadh,

Lammas my ancestresses

celebrated the 

beginning of the harvest season 

harvest gives life 

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life given by my mother 

and her mother 

and her mother 

and her mother 

and her mother 

and her mother 

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Through my harvested healing, 

I heal all of us