Catt Kingsgrave-Ernstein, Spring, 2002
My flesh brings forth the signs of my faith in monthly devotions.
Un-pierced, un torn my Moon Chamber drips Blood, rich and dark and strong.
In sanguine haze, I display the wounds of my Goddess,
A tiny fragment, I suppose, of Her pain. But who am I to claim the agony
Of a million birthings, a million slayings between each dawn and dawn?
Countless heartaches, betrayals, rapes, and ravagements She endures,
And still forgives
And still provides.
And feel the twisting wring of Life within my core.
Though for now the life within me is but my own,
My womb echoes with every birthing breath and cry.
The fire of my blood towers in strength so vast and ancient,
That I must become weak to bear it up, for even a handful of days
My breasts, made holy by Her grace, swell and ache to feed,
As does She, the hungry, and heartsick, and helpless of the world,
Though they number more than stars.
In aching extract I stretch my arms to hold Her
To comfort my Goddess as best my weak flesh can.
The tears of blood and pain pass through me, renew me.
I am Sacred in this state, and pure, for this is the blood of Innocents
That flows from out my loins, and someone must weep for them.
Who but my Sisters, and our Mighty Mother to see their mourning done?
The Goddess leans upon us all like this, but some few have learned
To love the touch of her strong, red hands.
And for a week, may say unto the Frowning Sky
"Behold, I am become LIFE, Destroyer of Despair!
All shall know Me, and rejoice!"
For a week, the Moon, my Sisters and I,
We give birth unto the future in bloody benediction.
Through us, by way of Her, all things are possible
I do not die of it.
That alone is proof.