we keep our goddesses on the unlit side
of the moon, that darkness
where the feminine divine
answers trinity with trinity–
a stone truth echoed in our faces.
I am not the maiden I was
with razor cheekbones and pointed breasts,
those boned angles too sharp to smooth
into roundness, my words arrows
with more barbed edges.
I ran once with that archer Artemis
hunting trails through thickets
naming what she does not kill friend.
I followed her where coyotes sleep
and owls nest, laughing and mapping
our path silver across night.
but edges soften and ripen, and I let him think he led
to that want, the touches flesh cries out for
when it is full, where it opens.
my breasts remember the heaviness of milk
and I am still that lover, that mother,
though the crone suggests herself
in parentheses framing my mouth when I smile,
in silver threading through hair lightly
the way I ran through night. yes,
that gray I hide with dye is a blessing,
but I am unready for that whole wisdom
and would run in wildness and savor its sum.
***at Dverse today, we are writing about ages and stages. Here is my offering–written from where I am–in the middle