To Her

On this 20th anniversary of the Violence Against Women Act, I weep. I weep for the women of the unspeakable rape-culture of India, for the daughters of the Democratic Republic of Congo, in whose perpetual civil war more than a million have been violated, for the women of Iraq and Bosnia and Cosovo, and all victims of the weapon of mass rape, used as a political tool. I weep as well for the victims of domestic abuse in America, especially those who are so traumatized by our patriarchy, they cling faithfully to their abusers; and I hang my head in sorrow...

Then I remember the Goddesses who honor me with their friendship. Never has a man had more awe-inspiring friends who are women: prophetesses and poets, artists, yoginis, wisdom teachers of the art of living, herbal healers, shamanist elemental movers of earth air fire, and water breakers, defiers of the rules of illusion, fire walkers through vast Dakini fields of Demeter-consciousness, who elevate the sacred grain stalk, who invent the drum, who gush the cream, who tread the clusters of my body into the wine of stillness and turn the harvest to a dance...

O wild wolf women, cat women, owl women, seal women, shape-shifting the very ground I walk on, I bow my face to your ascending powers. You know who you are, some with fiery locks that fall down to your loins, some with shaved heads like wish-granting diamonds, some in cities and some in forests, some alone in your Allness, some with partners, some the grandmothers of the tribe...
O wounded yet bleeding medicine, eternally unviolated heart-broken Mary's of the unborn, O messengers of milk and moonlight, black piquant triangles within triangles of the milliferous Kali Chakra, winged sisters of the heart inside my heart, for you this prayer: I'm sorry, please forgive me, thank you, I love you.