Strength

a woman in a long gold dress, walking in a field — In a meadow of spikerush and storm
This is not a lie.
This is a lie.

I went out one night when the moon was red,
round as a spoon with a bite taken out,

and I took off all I had —

rings and feathers and stones and cloth
and armor and teeth and decorative words,
and I dismantled the guards that bordered my heart
and sent them home on leave.

Undefended, alone, I walked in the rain,
icy fingers waking my skin,
rushing in rivulets down lashes and thighs
until I reached the edge of the forest.

Shivering warm I called to the dark,
past licorice ferns and the chiming of birds,
past purr of bees in their honey-hushed hives,
where puddles make mirrors of leaves.

Silver webs parted my lips as I walked –
as spiders chased jewels of dew –
barefoot to earth, toes wrapped around roots,
following the incense of cypress.

Reaching a clearing, I swept clean my feet
in a meadow of spikerush and storm,
leaving traces of me as I moved through the night,
till, finally, I heard her reply.

On delicate sand, soughing palmetto bones,
in the shade of a shadow I found her,
and with murmuring sighs she opened her jaws,
and I healed the toothache of a panther.

As a thank you gift, we feasted on deer,
then she stretched by my side for a scratch.
I kissed velvet nose, and she licked weary hand,
as we fell asleep in the forest.

and my heart held all I had –

I went out one night when the moon was red,
and awoke in my bed at home.

This is a lie.
This is not a lie.
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