My dark, bitter goddess,
pulse-quickener, mind-sharp
miracle bean, sunrise rouser--
it's you I serve—the master
becomes the slave to you,
equatorial, tropical queen,
and I worship every morning--
your siren song, my alarm,
dispelling the fog of my mind
like your misty mountain home,
calling me from sleep in tangled
sheets as the sun streams
and I prepare the chalice for
our ritual, a clumsy acolyte
fumbling through the temple
of a quiet, still kitchen.
No comments:
Post a Comment