I’m not often moved to poetry, to stanzas
heavy on the tongue.
Not given to verbally splitting the skin, pulling apart the gentle threads and fibres
that weave my consciousness together.
This séance, then, for this is what it is – an exorcism of sorts: is homage to the way you make me feel.
To the reverence you hold me in.
Me, the granddaughter of the witch they couldn’t burn.
Let me tell you what you’ve raised.
Cybele. Present. Powerful. I feel her aeons in the rolling of my hips.
This slow bump and grind is as eternal as the sea itself. Women have always walked with the gait of the Goddess.
And Scheherazade – she is there too,
wet and thick and warm,
her words fall from my mouth. I will spill honey, amber sunlight over your body.
Five years ago you wrote ‘Ananke’ inside my lips. An idea proud and shameless.
When my thighs move, Magna Mater, they are marble. They are stone and sculpture and they house the home of life and death hereafter.
I am Hecate come to hold you close.
You see, we women deal in blood. We shed it like scripture,
like six pomegranate seeds
we are half bound to birth,
with one foot permanently planted in the underworld: magpies liminal.
Sacrifice to the nature that teaches us the secret ways of things.
And when you gently traced the wild geography of my body, you mapped its quivers.
Its peaks and valleys and contours in between -
Yet this is no man’s land, and even though it does not belong to you,
you might still divine my secrets
from my sweetly weeping flesh.
So be a dear. Give me discourse synonymous with my fierce dichotomy.
Weave red thread around each one of my fingers.
Make me sob with pleasure – I’ll gasp for you bilingual in the true Mother’s tongue.
Navigate the narratives of the scars on my body.
And I will bless you