“They called us witches, but what did they know of it? We were Listeners, Lovers, Mothers speaking the mother tongue, speaking of rough linen and soap and all the fluids that compose a human child. We stanched little red rindles with creamy clusters of yarrow, bound bit fingers in plantain’s grooved leaves. We fed them all with apples and goat stew. We brought on their milk with fenugreek, held hipbones as they became open gates. We washed their dead, washed them clean and kissed their roseless cheeks. We washed them with the salt and water of our own eyes. We gave them over, bellies weighted with stones to keep them down below. And then we would know silence.”

Read it here