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by Guinivere

The mother,
the daughter,
the grandma,
the bitch,
the rebel,
the suppressed,
the shy,
the rich.

This circle, it ripples -
snaking the globe,
unraveling sand,
in Delphic states,
in dusty halls,
beyond city walls -
swirling hips,
prompt magic,
the pulse of the witch.

We shimmy, glide,
flick and push.
Emerald gems
tremor on our brows,
balanced like birds.
Our sequined skin,
all lit up, lush.

This birth dance,
this older than old
can't quite describe it right
the mystery holds,

From ochre etchings,
fruit sized earth women,
the spinning spinning,
the butterfly drops
of seeds and stories,
the survival, the first rites,
the lesson, the fantasy.
This is our moot,
our time,
this is when Baubo
flaunts and floops.
her ancient belly
weaves us in loops.

Here she is with her unseen eyes
unleashing our laughter,
fueling the hoots and the squawks
the snorts, the soprano talk...

Baubo is deep inside,
drinking our dance heat
coiling and coiling
like a happy seal.
She has us wear
this woman joy,
this hot euphoric gloss,
makes us sway
until our navels sit wide open.

When we've done our tricks
had our fix,
we file out,
into the star strewn
a flight,
pink printed cheeks,
the taste of Baubo -
drips on our lips.

And we know she sits
in her little Goddess slit,
one eye open
one ear trumpeted to the sky,
ready for that quiver
from the drum of woman -
then, she wiggles and rises
for Baubo is the Queen
of the dance
which beckons,
and tantalises.

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