She is not the one sitting over at the pit
where the exhalations of Earth’s conflagrations rise
omit what kind of Trance
takes her mind on another plane to dance

She is not the one on the tri-legged stool
balancing her bottom before worshipping fools
that’s not her Hustle, that’s not her story
that’s not her desire, to be worshipped
she does not seek Glory

What Oracle she may be comes from knowing
where the grain was cast, the roof raised,
the Harvest threshed, the rent party held,
she casts salt before the threshold
and stayed after to sage the joint

She smokes clove cigarettes mixed with unknowables

the black fairy in the village sold her a dime for a nickel
smiling beatifically in recognition of kindred sistership
o sweet tiny glorythis is what she leads us to
this is what she ushers in

What was lost, what was saved
what is planted above the grave
how the hearth in the home was made
add who gathers its fuel, peat or log,
twig or branch, child, parents, fool—

She is their Priestess and honored
with gifts, a special bit of this
first oil pressed, fermented fruit, early juice,
and that, late harvest wine, herbed vinegars
breads, the jangle of the smith’s hammerings
fierce forged, spare fire

She is of them   she can guide them
because she knows them she can guide them
because she knows

 
 
 
[Editor’s Note: The publication of this poem was made possible by a donation from D Franklin during our annual Kickstarter.]