She is an oracle
I turn to every 20 years;
to buoy me,
to collect me,
turn me into life.
To say —
no woman will ever love me,
no earthling love for the poet.
Therefore I best believe in
and lean into life;
find the love of life within this.
Her eyes dance at me,
at my spirit’s dancing.
Again, she calls me.
She could be
the Oracle at Delphi.
She was once that.
I’m certain.
I was there with her.
Priestesses.
Priestess sisters.
She says my weight is cosmic.
No woman will ever love you.
You were made for this world.
The healer… diviner.
I hear her.
The tune is unknown.
I hear her.
The Oracle turns coldly,
a reminder;
we make of life and also of others
what we will,
what we can.
The unloving, I don’t hear them.
I have work to do.
Long journey.
Sacred. I love her for her eyes
of stars I look into
and this reforms
the renaissance,
a renaissance of women.
My always lone-woman self.
I take up the call to still
believe in.
I am the sanctuary.
She is my oracle.
She reiterates —
suicide is not one of
my medicines,
nor my spells.
I am saved, so are my lovers.
There is so much work to do.
She does big work.
The legends speak of
the ravines of lost lovers.
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