When they carve the womb from your body it leaves a hole
in your psyche. That the absence of an obsolete organ
could crush a woman’s spirit is bound to mystify the uninitiated,
but one’s ability to abandon creative power is not subject to
arbitrary scoring. Mourning may last months.
Our silence muted the afternoon, erasing nature’s need
to shout above the noise we women like to make.
We do not speak nor read nor write, stay present
to details of sun and shadow, notice the obscure,
allow what’s hidden to reveal.
My vision expands, landscapes shift and change.
Hill turns to mountain, the stream’s steep bank
becomes a gorge. Fool’s gold shining through water
sings a siren song. I sink naked to its sandy bottom
and render up sorrow.
The brook refreshes fettle, washes away despair.
I want to stretch, escape across a field,
shout my name aloud. Instead
I walk mindfully, sustaining equilibrium.
Confine emotion, court balance.
A figure steps from the forest, evoking terror,
but it’s a woman I’ve admired. Bound by silence,
she blows a kiss, gestures me onward. A red tent
sits beneath the trees. The flap is open, a candle burns
beside a scarlet pallet.
I lie down, close my eyes, dream the world as if from space –
a sentient globe with all its rivers running red.
The planet bleeds menstrual blood. She is the source,
bleeding for me so I don’t need to bleed. I am her. She is me.
I emerge remade.
Christine Irving is a poet, priestess, and collage artist who relishes engagement with the world. Her faith lies squarely in connections, knowing she can find them everywhere and taking constant delight in dancing on Shiva’s intricate web. She is the author of an historical novel Magdalene A.D. and five books of poetry. Her latest volume Return to Inanna reveals her profound interest in exploring the relevance of myth to everyday life. Follow her blog at magdalenesmuse.wordpress.com/author/magdalenesmuse/ Check out her website: www.christineirving.com/ to find out more about Christine. Her books are available on Amazon.