The day ended badly with a broken ankle, a jinxed printer, and a dead car. The dry yellow grass against the sunset saved me. Roosters
pranced across a lawn of shit, proudly plumed in black feathers, bobbing before the gray goats. It was the first day I saw god in the quiet,
and found a mustard seed was very small. There I had been for years cursing “why?” and all the gold in the sun fell upon me.
There was a white mare in the midst of brown smog, majestic in the refinery clouds. Even the radio wouldn’t work!
My mother limps and her hair falls out. The faithful drive white Chevy trucks or yellow Camrys, and I’m here golden
on the smoking shock-less bus. I lost language in this want, each poem dust, Spanish fluttered
as music across the desert, even weeds tumbled unloved. The police sirens seared the coming night, dogs howled helplessly sad.
Lo I walk the valley of death, love lingers in my hard eyes. Mañana never comes just right. I mend myself in the folds
of paper songs, ring my paper bells for empty success. Quiero Nada, if I sing long enough, I’ll grow dreamlike and find a flock of pigeons, white under wings lifting awkward bodies like doves across the silky blue-white sky.
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 . . . ."