You there, in the lotus of my heart,–

Shamans! Siddhas! Lucid Dreamers!

Plus-wise Women 39 weeks pregnant

and walking to the Old Well! —

please adorn yourselves with these

amulets carved by urban mystics.

They, and the heart of this poem,

will protect you.

A man deep in his own curse

blames women for his cowardice.

After 1,008 snake spells and vision quests,

Goddess consciousness simply enjoys

dance meditation in celebration of

Herself.

Dear one, now you are forever safe

from men without spines.

Twelve yogini’s scry this same message

within cauldrons full of nectar:

“Love is not what you make, give, or feel;

Love is all you are.”

Flowers bloom in the

blind harpy’s garden.

She can sense how wide they’ve opened

by their fragrances.

She inhales slowly and deeply

as the new moon eclipses

the sun in Sagittarius.

She can smell

all dead things

coming alive.

She can taste sunlight

kissing the moon.

She can feel all the Dark

the moon hides.

She can hear infants’

eyes opening and closing.

She exhales slowly

as the moon rolls away.

The tide goes out, and

the world is brand new.

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