118

Twenty-First-Century Women’s Lib

If I relax into myself, allow reality

to the woman in my every gesture,

give audience to the crowding voices

of lament and grace that fracture the Osiris mind

to madness and dismemberment—

if I let the silver benediction of your Artemis face

float like some constant moon from infinite time,

restoring stars behind the heart’s amplitude of light,

I know this sublunar world is no Shadow.

Then it is I dare hear my heart

beating eternal desire to a hymn

against all numb indifference; then I can endure

donning the Moses-horns of moon that contain

the blinding sphere, making me whole,

mount the waiting throne of still unhuman latencies

and—not needing to see myself reflected in your eyes—

claim my majesty: commanding

each world to Be.