Wonder who you are becoming.
Voice the knowing of your inner
Guide. Build piece by tiny piece
On the consciousness you find. 
Marvel with childlike awe at fate-
Ful twists. See godlike good in all.
Fight with wise & fearful courage.
Expand your mind, your heart. In
This way you become a wonder,
Woman—a courageous, godlike
Marvel; a wise & awesome voice.

What do I know of courage?
So little.
Some day I want to sit at the feet
Of history’s bravest women
And ask for every story
Twice,
Maybe three times.
Tell me how it felt to fight
With sword or words
And your heart in your throat.

« Ne me plaignez pas
C’est pour cela que je suis née. »

Truth unfolds in its own time,
Each bud and bloom one by one,
Layer by layer.
I would hurry it,
Anxious to see every piece
Of a complex puzzle
And find the center.
I have a feeling women are there,
Hidden so long from history
And ready to play vital roles.
We always have,
But we haven’t always known it.
Even our tears are sacred.

Atonement is to be made with blood.[1]

It is a fearful thing to fall
Into the hands of a living God.[2]

Blood trickles from our
Bodies and the
Earth catches it,
Swallows.

Priestesses, we
Mind the red stream,
Vivid against
White porcelain tiles,
That anoints us as it snakes
To the shower drain,
Dripping over
Stone temple steps,
Filling garden terraces—
Fountains of living water
That nourish the soil that feeds us.

The blood of the covenant[3]
Is ours.

Priesthood inherited from Mother Eve
Hums in our mitochondrial cells,
Daughters endowed
With heritage and birthright.

Blood without a cut courses
In drops, clots, rivulets,
Pooling bright or dark
Enough to frighten a man,
While we stand
Formidable
With fierce potential.

My cup runneth over.[4]

Truth exists
In quiet paradox:

Our shame is sacred,
Our uncleanness[5] cleansing,
Our subservience—sovereignty.

We resist the guest we should welcome.
We pale at the infirmity that grants strength.
We fight the pain when surrender leads to truce:

Warm and sweet like milk that leaks from our nipples,
Thick as it seeps through folds and dribbles down our legs
That open to receive love, that open to bring love forth.

The life of the flesh is blood upon the altar
That maketh an atonement for the soul.[6]

At-one-ment
Binds the female race by monthly rite,
Soul sisters
Sharing a shrouded task:
Seven days
To restart messy creation alone,
Bleeding freely as
Conduits
Linking the mortal to the immortal,
And there, behind spills and smells
Of pungent reality, to reconcile veiled divinity—

Could we be human
Goddesses
Of power more infinite than we know?

I set before you this day a blessing not a curse.[7]

Mother Earth cradles us in her cycles:
Waxing globe and waning crescent,
Full leaf, bare brown twig—
From shade to kindling.

A woman nurtures
Of the breasts
And of the womb[8]
Not just when full
But when empty—
Giving everything
When it seems there is
Nothing to give.

When age staunches her flow,
She gushes wisdom
More precious than rubies,[9]
Bought with ruby blood
And crystal tears shed
As ransom—

Heavy in grief,
Light in joy.

Without dying,
We give our own life.

[1] Exodus 30 chapter heading
[2] Hebrews 10:31
[3] Exodus 24:8
[4] Proverbs 23:5
[5] Leviticus 15:25 (19–28)
[6] Leviticus 17:11
[7] Deuteronomy 11:26
[8] Genesis 49:25
[9] Proverbs 3:13–15