Hand in hand, I know thee.
Heart to heart, I love thee.
Side by side, walk near thee.
Face to face, work with thee.
One hope, in Him we’re set free.
KEEP READING
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I really think it’s very sad
No! Not just sad, extremely bad
That Eve alone was blamed for years
And women oft reduced to tears,
Because she boldly took the fruit
And ate it, when the serpent spoke.
The Hebrew scriptures make it clear
Adam was with her, standing near.
Do you think that thus she would have dared
Had he her lust not fully shared?
Poor Eve, condemned thenceforth to bear
Within herself the painful share
Of ordained consequence! Yet worse
By far what men then did.
I’m a one-breasted woman,
I’m Christ’s Amazon,
I’m a one-breasted woman,
I’m ready to fight.
I’m a one-breasted woman,
my ax is at my side.
I’m a one-breasted woman,
I keep attacking the enemy.
FROM THE CONCEPTION OF MANKIND IN THE
GARDEN OF EDEN UNTIL THIS PRESENT HOUR,
I WAS IN HIS PLAN.
KEEP READING
My names, a drunkenness of vowels,
l’s, ümlauts, a mélange of ancestries,
diacritics, an unreasonable stretch
of signature, this seven-syllable
amalgam, this roughhouse of families,
this farrago of Spanish, English,
German, this gallimaufry
of tree gardener, medieval shrew,
Pelayo’s son, this rummage
sale of dactyl and anapest.
Is it the transparency
and lift of air?
Is it release
as when the pebble
flings out of the slingshot
or the tethered dog
suddenly is without lead?
On the morning
of your seventieth birthday
you say you feel that sick tug
of mortality, the reminder
that your roots are spring-thin
in this damp earth,
the reminder that green
shoots must break
seed shells in the stiff
push toward light,
the path dank and unfamiliar.
At my bedroom door an unarmed guard
stands statue-straight—a nightlight
once Christmas-wrapped in Mother's love.
Another white bread and red wine wedding
walks the well-worn path down the white
petal-softened red carpet aisle.