She. Is. Woman.

Little girl,
skirt between jeans,
blood on the knees and
hiding scraped palms, proving
she can do anything the
boys can. 

Woman,
just barely, and
learning the edges between
world and heart, face to
the wind, lips bruised
but laughing. 

She,
losing the edges, has
learned what it takes to be
a good mother and daughter
and anchor to all
but her. 

She
lets her hair down,
alone for a moment
as night slumps over
the world, hands shaking
on the brush. 

Her eyes
searching mirror
and oceans, past lives
and night skies, wondering
and losing who she was,
before.

She
awakens worlds where
there are none, but
one glimpse into hers
is enough to awaken
centuries. 

Centuries
of wind chimes in the
night, rain in the desert,
throat to moonlight,
and the defiance of
surrender. 

Centuries
of hands kneading flour
and water, folding together
the years, hands staking
skull to earth with a
tent peg. 

Centuries
of dancing in neon
and wine, kneeling in
vestal shrine, bondwoman
and free awaiting the
angel’s voice. 

Centuries
of judges and mothers,
virgins and queens,
warriors and lovers of
prophets, and the downfall
of kings. 

Centuries
of love and treason,
earth and birth, valor
and madness, she is
both lock and key
to death. 

If it is
a curse-haunted dream
or a dream-haunted curse
I don’t know. 

I only know
that through her flows
the gold of mankind,
lifeblood transformed.

She is
Woman.