Fierce Sekhmet

I Am the panther Crone,

sensual Dark Moon.

I bide My time,

One in Myself, My own.

My year parades:

supine nights, black regal standing days:

synchrony, chronology.

I wait to strike,

cobra coiled, hood spread,

to ignite like a match,

to pounce,

to slice with crescent claws

unsheathed, with teeth

to slit cosmos open,

creative womb of blood,

Mother Vagina, brooding,

spilling forth Light.

Call Me Sekhmet.

Beware before you call!

I Am Black. I hold sun’s gold

in My womb/tomb.

I Am Cosmic, old.

I Am Night, claw-pricked by stars.

Curved knives,

bright Change,

emerge from My dark new moon,

rounding corners

toward a new beginning.

I Am dripping

peaceful womben’s blood.

I Am protection. 

Be My kit,

I Am the leap of faith:

that Mother lode

is older than the sun,

a wealth of nurturing warmth

wise before time.

I Am smoldering power

deeper than volcano.

I Am Magma, Core of earth,

dynamo fueling all Love.

I Am Origen, springing,

claw of awe,

sheathed in Dark’s velvet glove.

© Tamara Rasmussen 2018