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.

Sunday, March 10, 2013

Mountain Lion

Prompt: "What animal are you?"

I wouldn't mind being a mountain lion
female
powerful
glossy
beautifully grey-tawny

my scent so strong
it summons a mate
from another mountain.

Stretched on my high stone ledge
I survey the valley
watch for intruders
choose the object
of dinner to stalk.

Mostly alone
quiet
in the Spring, my cubs gambol around me
I play-snarl, roll them over
rough them against smooth rocks
looking forward to the day they'll leave me.

An eagle swoops overhead
I lift my furry face to the sun
press my eyes closed
against the heat
and purr.

When at long last the hunter
comes with his gun
I'll spring forward to meet him.

              --Agatha
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