A wild woman born
has many flagons of magic
(and still other dungeons
remain in cobweb clasps)
She can drop her spells as stepping stones to glamor
turning each lock behind
in the black labyrinth.
The sky is crying rain drips
through the lashes of the tree
and in an instant splish-splash
and we feel It coming.
How much more do you want of me, Mistress Moon
blinking your chimera’s eye, stirring my cells
in time to the moody lull of your barbarous beat,
intent on my submission, more white
than shark’s teeth, colder than icebergs, and broody – endlessly throbbing?
Push sagacious eyes beyond
the tattooed patterned coating –
disregard the holy flesh
and seek within,
without . . .
I am wearing my life
like the gecko dons its skin –
ready to split at a moment’s notice
and leave all behind in a heap.
I crossed over in the night for the very first time –
just floated serene and lonely
on coffee-brown water that lapped at my raft, unfelt.
I was not so much frightened as stricken with awe –
full of no earthly sensation
but the rushing of time, propelling me on and on.
Then at some exact moment – the slate horizon
cracked like a splintering egg-shell
and strange orange light bled through the fissures of dark.
It was not yet my time.
A return to earth
for tending and restoration
is simply another phase
on the journey of Self.