A selection from In the Hands of the Immortal Weaver: Poems of Sacredness and Belonging


The knife goes in up to the hilt
twisted by a hand once taken in trust,
and life must change.

Do not fear what comes next.
Let the attacker flee,
betrayal heavy on his conscience.
Pull the knife out and let the wound bleed.

The room will spin
as the world turns over on itself.
You will fall to the floor, shaken, and fearful.
And if the wound runs deep enough
you will die.

But that is not the end.

You will go from death
back into the safety of the womb.
There to regather, redefine,
and then to be born anew,
Emerging slightly scarred but stronger
having fought your way
through the fever of betrayal.

We must die once
if we are to learn we are immortal.

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