Daughter of Themiscyra

“I am no man!” she declared
from the trenches that swallowed up so many of us
even now.
And she threw off her cloak
let free her hair
and climbed the ladder to the wasteland.
Charging forward shield and sword in hand,
battle ready, she advanced.
Taking fire, she created space for others also to advance.
It took a moment,
but they recognized her tactics
and engaged her strategy.

There are moments like this,
where we recognize one another
across time
language
worlds ...
Where we see patterns:
in actions,
words,
images ...
Perhaps in sequences of events,
a sort of deja vu ...

When such incidents occur,
when time and space collapses and
divisions melt away
time
space
language
even gender ...
we are truly lucky
we see, we hear, we feel ...
Boudicca
Joan of Arc
Casandra
Medusa …
a daughter, a child, fighting her way out of what she knows not, only that she must fight …

An eldest daughter redeeming her mother on the battle field of patriarchy
reclaiming her life
finding her way
picking herself up
surviving domestic abuse
fighting back after rape
refusing to be defined by fundamentalist beliefs
finding herself bereft and still
picking up the sword of her mother and
defending herself from
what monsters she cannot identify
on a battlefield she does not know
against a patriarchy that swore it would
love her
love them both
unconditionally if only she
if only they
would forswear all
if only they would give their very souls
if only they would serve
if only she would give her very innermost as yet
unknown
desires and the healing of wounds as yet
unknown
and those of her ancestors as yet
unknown
how could she even speak such things as yet
unknown?
and anyway
they lied.

Even a goddess can trip.
Even a goddess can grieve,
regret
want
long for things unspoken,
whispered in the unfolded hours of the night
wake
alone
gasping
sobbing
and
wonder
what
might
have
been.

Even a goddess can keen
Even a goddess mourns
Even a goddess wants
what the heart wants ....
The heart
the heart
the heart ...
The swords in
the heart.
None of us is immune.

Only those who have loved
even though they have hardened themselves
especially then
can know
what it is to
break into pieces
too many to count
and to dissolve
to sink into the earth
to lose all
semblance of who
and what
we
once
were ...
to
know only what it is
to
put
one
foot
in
front
of
the
other
five meter targets
they say
the daily grind
even if it fulfills us
a galaxy away from our souls
our heart
the mission
the problems of others the
duties of the
day the work we
become what we
do what we
are, what we
might have been for
ever lost to
us.
If we are lucky, a ribbon leads us
back to us
someday.

A memory
a breath
a refrain
a scent, a color ... a shape ...
A gesture in 4 quarter time in a café
on State Street, a shadow with a certain lilt
an order for café au lait
and you are there
at the table in the window
in the corner ... walking with me in the snow
your coat, an unusual color
and warm
billows around us
your laughter in my hair
your lips on mine

even earlier ...
(so far away)
a shift in the wind and an angle of sunlight,
a rustle of tree leaves
and
it is fall
and the ginko has laid her blanket on the hill, beckoning
me, and I cannot stay away she
pulls me in, her golden honey to a bee ... and I am hers
she tells me stories, you see ... of an old, old man who loved a little girl
whose world disagreed with her
and spit her out and left her to die.
He could not bear to see her suffer
but he also could not save her
so he told her stories that distracted her from her pain
in the moment, but also
helped her to survive in spite of herself
and to teach herself
long after he died
and to thrive
even when she swore she no longer wanted to live
and did her best to die, too.

And then, even earlier
the smell of snow
elemental
the feel of ice
the river immobilized, where I learned to skate
before language
a foal learning to walk in the swirling snow
somehow easier on metal blades
my coat a sail
and in the spring swallows chased insects
and crickets and cicadas sang
aspen leaves danced on the wind
guardian trees
white egrets
the great blue heron ....
She taught me the names of flowers:
Queen anne's lace, soldier's rags, bull thistle,
milkweed, dandelions,
johnny jump-ups
clover ....
(I love you)

Even a goddess must let go.