“Indigo seldom spoke. There was a moon in her mouth. Having a moon in her mouth kept her laughing. Whenever her mother tried to pull the moss off her head, or clip the roses round her thighs, Indigo was laughing. “Mama, if you pull em off, they’ll just grow back. It’s my blood. I’ve got earth blood, filled up with Geechees long gone, and the sea.” - Ntozake Shange: Sassafrass, Cypress and Indigo 
My flowers start as seeds. Buried intuitions that germinate from a feeling of knots and roots that end and begin with the same circular gesture. They grow from a soil of ancient land and bodies that exist in a verdant afterlife of fragrant scars.  My flowers are watered by stories my grandmothers tell me and ancient photographs who hold the eyes of women I see reflected in the drawings crawling from my palms. I have painted Mississippi plantation fields that somehow morph into self-portraits of the etheric and astral faces of the women before me, embodied as wild flowers. My flowers change and shift, cocoon and bloom. These flowers are a prayer to the women before me. The women who saw worlds that in this language we call “myth”. To my Makidada, my sister of the past who has allowed me to see the unseen.
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