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(A continuation from Ash Wednesday’s poem, Seeker of Ash)

• • •

Outside,
the moon hangs with foresight.

Inside,
I sit in the basement
of the sanctuary, rifle the
forgotten book on my lap,
flashlight in hand,
flip with fury,
find fallen phenomenon.

Creeeeeak, creeeeeak, creeeeeak
Footsteps above me,
my heart stops—

What if they figure me out?

Quiet settles,
I keep on,
forge for information
of the deep way

With roots fixed firm,
there she is —
arms rise to flexible form,
an expansive stretch

Gaia, spreader of seeds

With flaming heart,
there she is —
eyes flicker with desire,
faces the fable of sin

Eve, seeker of solid food

With fluid connection,
there she is—
hands embrace a duffel of fragility,
treasure in lap,

Rachel, bearer of code

With air of knowledge,
there she is—
mouth speaks of furtive wisdom,
voices freely in the inner circle,

Magdelene, confidant of Christ

By now,
my eyes fling open
to ancient women as
prophets of strength
whose stories have been
flipped.

Spirit blows in.
She calls herself Sophia;
her torch lights
to ignite ghost stories.

She affirms my discovery.

She unrolls blueprints —
shows fingerprints found
on tambourines,
messages filtered
through reed baskets,
bottles filled
with healing balm.

I place the holy feature on the floor
and race to tell the others.

I leap through cobwebs
and take on midnight fear.

With wooden gait,
there they are—
minds fierce with their intellect,
hearts fastened to fact

Columns of structure, faces of uniformity

When I mention —
Feminine Grace
Wisdom at the Fountain
Lady of Breath
they reel their heads back,
peel with laughter —

My voice lilts
among their hard lines —
I hum
for senses to awaken, beg
for creative incense to waft
through conformity.

A memory stirs.

The pillars recall a time
when the woman wave makers
made a scene —
when they banged drums
for Lady Divine to be admitted
into the sanctuary.
The faces of uniformity
couldn’t imagine, they held firm —
she was shut out, door closed
to her presence.

I stutter and flutter.
But, when? Why?
How can the Trinity be all men?
As far as I know, men can’t birth themselves?

The towers shrug their shoulders.

Wind of Grace catches my nose.
A fox on the scent,
I dart past the columns with flair.

I hear a celebration,
a reckoning.
I flow into the night
and find

prophets

artists

activists

seekers of the Night Owl

For these are the fugitives
who carry the unpopular stories.

They press the edge
out to the rim of the galaxy

They stretch their voice to beyond,
their echo remains

This is where the thread is passed
to the next generation
for favorable change to be made.

I pick up my flashlight
and hear their call,

“Are you coming? Let’s go!
There is formidable work to be done.”

I run to the band of merry mystic makers
to march to their fresh beat.

I begin to scribe a story where
women are honored,
colors are blessed,
ritual is key,
truth is spoken.

“What about you?
Are you coming?
Let’s go.”