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I float in the delicious, dreamy, gestational creation state which is my true HOME and the birthing place of all that my MAGIC creates - the infinite energy jewels of stories which are also galaxies and universes which I bring through and birth. 


Each universe, each galaxy, each world, is a story that was created from the eternal creative chaos of stardust and magic impregnated by one pure inspiration, one pure truth. 


Gestated in the black hole of creative juice at the center of the ALL OF ALL, each story that is birthed out through a temporary aligning of forces and structures imposing order on that raw and wild beautiful chaos until it is born. Each one a divine infinite jewel of energy and color, precious and unique.


I invite you to come dance with me in my stories and poems and other words, all of which are teachings and sparks to awaken, enliven, and quicken your heart and spirit towards yourSELF and your awareness of you within The ALL OF ALL. Be inspired, get excited, cry, share, love.


I love you.

::poem:: Post Surrender Lactation

It's all lost forever now.

I wonder if she was in pain after sending me away,

her breasts filled with milk,

aching and full and swollen,

leaking out the nipples.

She waited a month before signing the release papers.

I wonder during that time,

those 30 simple days,

if she walked in a grocery store

and saw a baby in her mother's arms and cried?

I wonder if she heard the baby cry

and felt that sudden rushing swoosh of lactation

of milk swelling the milk ducts throughout her breasts

in nature's ancient response to all babies' cries?

I wonder if she told her mother I hate you for making me do this

and then secretly lay in her high school bed feeling relieved?


I wonder if the baby she rushed to have two years later

Ever filled that void?

If my sibling coming forth

Could withstand the pressure

Of her grim and secret wanting and anger

A tight little ball knotted at the seat of her soul

Unacknowledged and unremarked upon

Named Catherine Ann.

How did my sister or my brother handle the dull aching knowledge

Of never being good enough and never knowing why?

We have so much more in common than DNA.


And if I found her now

Sought her out after all this time

She would be in a small town outside Boston

On the south eastern side of the city

Married to a blue collar worker

Or middle manager for an insurance company

A quiet, steeled woman

With a penchant for pulling her hair back tightly and not coloring it.

Would she be that way?

Her way of holding out against the Catholic repression,

the domination of her parents’ generation’s will,

would be to close herself off

from the daydreaming of sixties hippy love children born in the back of a VW van

On the side of route 66

That small stocky boy she loved back then by her side,

to tune in, turn on and drop out of her own existence

leaving this shell behind a zombie parading as a human being?

Now she would hate him

Never got over him

Never forgave him

He should have taken her away and married her

He was weak and unstable

Full of big words too long for his penis.

Or would she be instead a brittle reinvented version of who she might have been

had she gone to college somewhere

other than the community college she was consigned to?

the purgatory she earned for her fall from grace.

(Is my face like her face?)

She could be a real estate agent now,

divorced, starting over,

her hair dyed an auburn tinged brunette

meant to recall the original natural color

but add a little extra, you know, just for fun, for a Saturday night.

She reinvents herself,

unrecognizing of the fact that she brings herself back,

back to the day before she learned about the baby,

back to being 16

and full of pep

and excitement

and the inability to see

beyond Saturday night.

Her children grown and moved on

Loving but distant, their mother always somehow unapproachable

Her large bosom never inviting, a distance always in her eyes.

They live nearby

With families of their own

And everyone gathers in the backyard of one or another’s home on the Fourth of July and barbecues hotdogs and hamburgers

Grilling the buns

The squirty juice bursting out into your mouth

from that first bite through the toasted shell

and the soft bread

to meat inside

her grandchildren running around the yard in swimsuits

slipping and sliding under the sprinkler.

She drinks the margaritas made for her in large plastic tumblers

Mixed from Tequila and LimeAde

Plastic, pastel colored ice blocks in the shape of flamingoes and sun bursts float at the top

As she pretends that she doesn’t ever think about me.


melanie gillespie



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