As a girl, she hated the grain of anything on her fins. Now she is part fire ant, part centipede. Where dunes stretch into pathways, arteries appear. Her blood pressure is temperature plus wind speed.
Where religion is a thousand miles of coastline, she is familiar with moon size, with tide changes. She wears the cream of waves like a vestment, knows undertow is imaginary, not something to pray to.
Now her questions involve fairytales, begin in a garden and lead to hands painted on a chapel's ceiling. She wants to hold the ribbon grass, the shadow of angels across the shore. She steals a Bible from the Seashore Inn;
I'm a woman, a Witch, a mother, a grandmother, an eco-feminist, a gardener, a reader, a writer, and a priestess of the Great Mother Earth. Hecate appears in the
Homeric Ode to Demeter, which tells of Hades who caught Persophone
"up reluctant on his golden car and bare her away lamenting. . . . But no one, either of the deathless gods or of mortal men, heard her voice, nor yet the olive-trees bearing rich fruit: only tenderhearted Hecate, bright-coiffed, the daughter of Persaeus, heard the girl from her cave . . . ."