This Queen,
nowhere to be felt or seen,
withholds her royal form
and, as emissaries dispatch,
dons another role.
Her representatives,
prodding via proxy, they do
tease and gibe and goad, as
She, like a figure which recedes
to ground, and back to figure
again, with no fanfare arrives
costumed in armature —
cage, abdomen, and cocoon.
Everywhere these ambassadors
of a goddess in silence
whisper: bow before That
which is All.
Psychosexual, with
the elan of a black widow
or like a crossed lover,
She stings me with her telson,
pursuing an act of
tacit admonishment and then
divine intimacy,
entwined as one on the floor.
Left yelping inside and
temporarily defeated
by my debilities
and a tendency toward
this clownish self-collapse.
As white light cracks through cosmic law,
edges of this structure
turn surrender to art form.
By way of
harmonic DNA,
this creative intelligence proclaims:
be true to self;
plant seeds;
build community;
revere the matron;
love is the currency of consciousness;
that is all.