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.
