The Moon a Sickle’s Blade
You can smell the damp earth
The sky is black, the moon a sickle’s blade.
Bramble and twigs claw at your skin
on the blanketed forest floor
You hear its crackle as you get closer,
through the silhouette of trees.
those worries in the back of your mind.
before you enter the circle.
Let your veils and cloaks fall.
We do not hide what we are here, women.
Here you are as Mother Earth made you.
Feel the drum thrum through you.
Let yourself bend like a willow to its pulse.
Here, all bodies and spirits are welcome
Let the voices of your ancestors
Cast the names of your enemies
Their shadows cannot cross
Sing, and let the spirits hear you.
Cast the wax doll into the fire,
and let your feet guide you
Here, we do not punish rage.
Here, we do not shame grief.
Let it move through you as you dance.
Cry, and know that it is done.
Bless the fire with handfuls of earth
and watch them fall crossed.
your sisters in spirit keep watch.
Slip the black and purple stones
under your pillow to guard your dreams,
and know that when you wake,
your petition has been heard.