Tread the churning belly waters,
Dance your fingers’ grasping song,
Give liquid breath to the longing air —
All for the taste of toe to ground.
Some days it all moves easy, smooth.
Some days, rocked, we rise above
(Though this isn’t always good).
God is like Isis with a misplaced halo;
They share a longing for nothing, held.
And good is just God with a stolen “oh”,
With an influx of dangerous meaning.
Gather round then, priestesses.
Let’s till the dark soils, once again, with our tears.
Let’s keep dancing, and grasping, and weeding our hearts
Til our knees are wet with the soil of moon.
Meanwhile, the questions are resurrecting:
Displacing cold stones over dead mens’ tombs,
Escaping those mimics of our sacred temples,
Bringing life, open-palmed, to our cheek-stained sun.
Dance your fingers’ grasping song,
Give liquid breath to the longing air —
All for the taste of toe to ground.
Some days it all moves easy, smooth.
Some days, rocked, we rise above
(Though this isn’t always good).
God is like Isis with a misplaced halo;
They share a longing for nothing, held.
And good is just God with a stolen “oh”,
With an influx of dangerous meaning.
Gather round then, priestesses.
Let’s till the dark soils, once again, with our tears.
Let’s keep dancing, and grasping, and weeding our hearts
Til our knees are wet with the soil of moon.
Meanwhile, the questions are resurrecting:
Displacing cold stones over dead mens’ tombs,
Escaping those mimics of our sacred temples,
Bringing life, open-palmed, to our cheek-stained sun.
