I never needed rescuing,
Yet I kept playing the part.
A time of reclamation for a creature who lives in her poems,
in the desert,
in this beautiful, able body.
“Suck it up, buttercup,” and “tough shit”
are the messages offered through Source.
Within me is the medicine
and the dreams of new life growing.
Sun hours of illusion dying,
shattering my heart and the conditions
built upon a missed teaching
to trust my own emergence.
Allies of plants, of Spirit,
and many hands of humanity.
A container has been made
for the life/death/life cycle.
Within the cocoon rests a vision of my wild,
amidst the sorrow of my loss.
An insulation for my return to the temple
from which I am made.
With many eyes, I bow to the teachers
who guide in unconventional ways,
and the healers who nourish
leaving only an option of rebirth.
Patterns of salvation resourced from another
who is no longer there
has left me naked,
far from a queen’s throne.
I wrap the blanket of union
around my own shoulders.
Soon enough
I will emerge.
