I’m not a music writer but I wanna talk about the tough divinity in women, about how it sounds in our music, about grimes and fka twigs and dawn Richards and kelly lee Owens. I wanna talk about the grotesque heads of the hostas pushing their way out of the matted dirt and slime in my garden beds, twisted cronenberg clusters shedding worm castings to reach the light and air where they can unfurl. How long do they spend underground before they crown? How many of them die before we see them? How shallowly we eye them, commenting on color & stripe & bloom & leaf. We forget the frost. We forget the war they fought to reach us. We do them a disservice to call them pretty. They’re miracles.