An Oath
By Jen Besemer
doubt borrows like a tick
under my skin, denying
the older things i know,
hissing like meat on a grill
to say i am less than myself
and neither loved nor strong,
niether Priestess nor Empress,
my heart a wooden spoon
useful only for work,
my body cold and flaccid.
but i have rocked in the cradle of flame,
i have bathed
in the seed of my lover,
i have held the egg close to my heart.
this dance is not my last
i will burn that doubt
in the iron post of life
and will make my way slowly home.
By Jen Besemer
doubt borrows like a tick
under my skin, denying
the older things i know,
hissing like meat on a grill
to say i am less than myself
and neither loved nor strong,
niether Priestess nor Empress,
my heart a wooden spoon
useful only for work,
my body cold and flaccid.
but i have rocked in the cradle of flame,
i have bathed
in the seed of my lover,
i have held the egg close to my heart.
this dance is not my last
i will burn that doubt
in the iron post of life
and will make my way slowly home.