The Tax On the Soul

It is said in ancient places
that you must honor me,
adore me,
the woman who has given birth
to you and to your children,
who has given her body
countless times
to bring you wisdom.

My tears are salty and warm
like the fluid of the womb
and given with no less pain
than that of the labor of this soul.
These tears find the honest
and a true path over a weary face
engaged in a lifetime of searching.

Imagine yourself in my body,
your face, your mouth, your tongue,
all ways of loving the flesh that wraps
the spirit so tightly,
finding the sweetness of the hive
like a bear waking in the warm snows
of spring.
You are more hungry than you know
and you have only to surrender to love
to be fed until bursting
with unimagined joy.

Love, you do not have to hide from me.
You have only to be your true self,
letting me take you in
from all possible perspectives.
I will stand in front of you,
having opened the door with the ring of keys
you have given me
over these many lifetimes of loving.
I will place my hands firmly on my hips
and demand the truth a of the universe
from your lips,
from your body—
the tax one soul pays
for ultimate joy.

Weaving

A dream came to visit me
in my sleep only two nights ago
waking me at my finger tips
inviting me to place my hands
into the ८०,000 threads of light
that make up the soul.
I listened to the sound of the spinning
of all time in that drowsy place.

His face came first
with the center of his right eye
fixed on mine
in the embrace of my deepest heart
showing me where to begin to weave
these blackest threads
into the space
where the truth of his mouth
could have been.
I was lost in this god place,
in the place where all my knowing
was right,
making my skin sure of each knot
I was tying in the purples and greens
and golden strands.
The bonds holding tight and secure.

“The work is hard.” I thought
in this dream.
The path is here in the layers and layers. . .
in the fabric I will smooth
silky over my body.

I am the bride
stitching my own gown
unwilling to go back to the life
I knew before love. . .
A child, grown into a woman,
the goddess taking the hand of this consort
and willing him into a handsome partner.

This gown is perfect for travel
at night through the stars of sleeping
light captured
like a breeze
in the open window
of spring.