She walks on soil tilled clay saffron with blood
lady of the Me and lions, crown of evening stars
Hail Inanna! Draped in rainbows and floods, arks
adrift from her fury find harbor at her breasts
she gives and she takes, courts, coquettes, claims
the young and strong and makes warriors lovers
Hail Inanna! Queen of the Heavens, daughter of Anu
Mistress of the Bull and Seeker of Dumuzi, braver
of Ereshkigal’s gibbet, Maiden to Woman, wise regent
of the heart and war, which are evermore the same.
There is bone china between us, chamomile secrets
the snake is not supposed to be in chiffon and silk,
but she wears it like a skinned angel, wings, halos
cut to form a necklace for moon-pale neck of beauty.
I am in lace and blue embroidery, Virgin to Whore,
Sophia tells Eve all the secrets of the cursed Garden
how an Archon of Wisdom and Angel of Conception fell
Mother became Monster, and I hold her hand as tremble
spill of tears sully an ivory gown, Night Howler hair
writhes out like snakes, and sometimes her skin poisons
me into fevered stupor, but our lips lock in desperation
both prisoners of the Devil but his masters all the same
to be woman and myth and exiled from grace means shadows
of Eden will draw spine-tingles from desert dreams, she
tests me, rests me, confesses to me, she is ablution,
corruption, my Terpsichore, my one vision of moon maiden
and we dance in a grove in Hell that is sick with roses
bend and turn until we are oblivion, Maiden and Mistress
her beneficence flows in equal measure with her cruelty
and when the orchestra in the reeds hums evening down
we embrace and thirst after tongues and poisoned saliva
I drink her milk and know the sweetness of Styx waters
Lilith is conundrum, the Source, the Deep, the Omega of
all men’s temptations, but she is my sister, so we fly
through Sephiroth up to the outer boundaries and nest
as Zu birds in a cradle in the branches, prey and hunter
find balance as Paradise’s breeze sways our dreams aloft
I am lost in the Queen of Hell, and her lap is my altar
I will praise her and curse her, and when she soars away
I will rage, I will rage, I will rage.
What would you ask of me, Alfather?
Old Man of the Roaring Northern Gale.
I have seen your blue cloak in auroras
your bloody hollow on yews of sacrifice.
In your eye socket were worlds and kings
feasting on your brains, and your grimace
was more wolf-smile or raven curiosity
than pain, you swung, Gallows King, wept
runes onto Mannaheim, your bag of stars
empty of all but the most crushing embers.
Odin Many-Faced, your men and women mark
their days with interlocking triangles to
nooses, for the hangman’s jig befits jester
questors who bathe themselves in wanderlust.
Am I just the newest in a string of Ynglings
to sip mead from giant skulls and wordsmith
your epithets to death? Will hale horns be
enough to please the King of Nine Worlds?
Or are you just toying as a muse for a lost
poet that cannot tell needfires from knives?
You take insults as compliments, and my raised
middle finger is an invitation to stalk, strike
so I write to appease you, sinking into madness,
and you are all winter and pain, endless journey.
Cobweb kingdoms etched in ice
bridal veils strung with rice
ancient lacing, yellowed vice
all is quiet on beds of mice.
Head under honey wine, the blackbird is in the reeds
crowing of Draupnir rings in my brass coiled braids
I wander for Gangleri in rags and pearls, gold harp
at my back as I sing down the stars, summon tales
of ships lost to Lorelei and mists carrying nokken
my back is hollow huldra, and I am the gift of gifts
mead poured out from silver rune tongue shadows cast
by the raven’s flight – blackbird chokes on berries
my harp strings are bloody from my playing, throat
dry and hoarse as I recite Edda and Saga, girl lost
in Odin’s hat, killed for love of Grimnir, I wander.
Raven stole the Sun for the woman he winged for
Kokopelli fluted rains for the desert’s daughter
Iktomi spun rings for the bright-eyed cheiftaness
Coyote snarled fresh kills for his wild mistress
Every Trickster is owned, but all of them dance.
Come the quickening blood, the churning luminaries to outer expanses
the Milky Way is my mortar and pestle and I grind star bones to dust
fly away, oh comet boy, and my net of stars will soften your landing:
I will catch you in dark matter arms and sail seas of white nebulas
soon we will be black hole screams, spaghetti, stretch inter-dimensions
but for now, your cradle is a sickle moon, and I am your quantum dream.