irkallahsveil

Oya! Lilith! Kali-Ma!
Killers, devourers, bitches all!

For 5,000 years you fought
Against the tsunami of woman- and goddess-bashing
Dark Mother, Angry Mother
Your stories have been white-washed beyond recognition.

Why shouldn’t your hearts be enraged
By the persecution of your children?
Why shouldn’t we be enraged
When we are pushed aside as unimportant
(and yet we’re expected to smile as our shackles are tightened)?

FUCK this world we allowed to be created!
I no longer believe in the vapidness and sexual weakness
The Powers that be say we are made up of!

The submissive Eve can rot in antiquity!
Lilith, Kali-Ma, Oya…come!

Place in my hands the double-edged blade of Truth.
With pipe and drum, mete out the beat and the rhythm
Of the ancient Song of Creation.

Throw your cosmic veil over all who desecrate you!
Everything is made up of blood and stars.

In garments of red and black, our screams, our rage, our pain
Has become the quickening of a New Birth.
A realm of Heart and Womb.

We swim through the river of forgetfulness
Picking up the scattered shards of our most ancient memories.

We are not plasticine toys—we are WOMEN!
You who have thrown us to the wolves—
You quake in fear when you see us strutting.

Proud and triumphant…we are leading the pack.
Killers, devourers, bitches all.

On the road from Damascus, I was one of many pilgrims walking to Jerusalem….for Passover, I had told them.
In truth, my dreams spoke of the one who had come,
Preaching of a Kingdom that had already sprung forth.
As a widow of great wealth, my words were met with scorn, forced to bare my head as the shepherds shear their sheep.
Wearing the burial rags of shame, I turned to that holy city, with only a young servant, a child, to attend to my needs.
Of course I had heard of that radical rabbi from Galilee, Raiser of the dead, who cast out demons and disease.
Now apostate, false Messiah, condemned to die,
Condemned much in the same way we women are.
At Golgatha, he carried the beam across his back,
Blood running from the crown like so many rivers.
My heart cried out to him as he fell, once, twice, the third time, mere inches from me, the crowd roaring.
I saw then so much of my own suffering he shouldered, for the first time, I listened to my inner vision, my soul song.
I felt HER pushing me to act, as she had so many times, and I listened…I broke from the crowd, to offer comfort.
It wasn’t much, to wipe the sweat and blood from his face, I froze under the stare of his dark brown eyes…so wise.
Then, like a desert storm, he was gone from my sight,
My servant being my only comfort in my grief…