THE WOMEN gather under the trees.
They bring gifts, food, and chairs.
They are gypsies and queens, oracles, saints,
Jezebels and jesters, healers, sages, and warriors.
And when the circle is complete, the magic begins.
Shyly, with dainty movements, they take turns,
shifting aside their robes to expose
missing limbs and gaping wounds.
The others gather close and peer, heads cocked,
eyes straining, and they chant,
"That is lovely, that is good,"
and the wounds stop weeping,
and they melt into scars,
silvery and light and beautiful.
Then the women lean back and laugh,
and they stretch, sensual and fierce,
like cats in the sun.

Saturday, September 29, 2012

I Still Hope

I still hope
yet how can I
as I fly over the cliff
soaring, soaring
not knowing
when I will stop
how I will stop
frenzied bodies all about me
clutching others in terror
others, spread-eagled,
unmindful of all
but the openness of space.
Whee! Whee!
       --Xena
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