Hearing Her Speak My Name; I Belong in Her Creation

I. 

Desert Rose rises deeply. 

Succulents calm coarse sand. 

Lemons don’t drop lately. 

The goddess speaks to me through their leaves. 

I don’t yet know how to listen. 

II. 

Eyes wet, I wish 

She spoke, sure spells 

Could help (cold heaven 

Sounds awful) so anticipate 

Rain, precipitate, roaring pain 

Full clouds forget clovers 

Cover critters crafting 

Covers with clovers 

If you’re still, you’ll see them, 

you’ll hear the Goddess in their steps. 

Here, there lies the beginning of knowing. 

III. 

I see her 

Dance and the trees 

Dance and the leaves 

Dance and the flowers 

Dance and I see 

Her move what I cannot. Is this 

Magic? I dig 

Deep within the goddess, dirt 

In my nails, but she never shies away. 

She drives down my hands, and I think 

Towards her, I want to bury myself here. She 

answers, could I do it? 

IV. 

Witches breathe underground 

Never drown 

Never bound 

Dead to some, but not to all 

Though light is absent warmth is not. 

I love the goddess for this resilient power 

That has been there from the start of being. 


Kristina Dover is a senior St Johns College, published in Stone of Madness PressEnergeia, and The Feminist Wire. She’s a witch, comrade, and friend.

Categories: Wasted Wizards & Witches

Daily Drunk

Shawn Berman runs The Daily Drunk. You can follow him on Twitter @Sbb_writer.

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