My Own Goddess-Queen
/The amalgam of she.
She noticed my earrings: rainbow beads strung above a sliver feather.
She shushed me in the library when my story became too boisterous.
She exposed dead forget-me-nots on her arms when she wore a sleeveless shirt.
She drives every day to see her rescued horse in a rented stable.
She.
*
What does she want
and
can she have it?
*
Reading Emily Dickinson before having sex only works if Emily is in the mood.
*
No man has ever taken a knee or served in a way which calls me queen. Coffee in bed, dinner after a long day of work, the desire to open the kingdom of ecstasy for my pleasure alone...
While I use love and compassion as trail signs or guideposts for those with whom I journey, it is clear that I must be my own goddess-queen. I must serve the muliebral calling buzzing as bees around the hot, honeyed glow of my heart.
Enough totem or talisman carving.
No more casting of runes.
*
Do you know the smell of a pine forest floor in autumn, on a crisp day, whereby a few long-sleeved beams of sunlight make it through the canopy? That is the goddess I serve and She is the One who says: get on your knees only if it serves you to do so, woman.
That moaning.
That untranslatable sigh which leads to comprehension beyond your propensity for logos.
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Mary Magdalene did not serve a man.
She saw Love in human form and allowed it ignite the remembrance of her royalty.