We did not fall with the Temple. We rose.
We are the Rainbow Roses and in this naming
we honor not only the Magdalene, not only
the Holy Mother, but ourselves as Priestesses
who aRose when the Temple fell.
Singed hems, heart broken, yes, we were wounded
as human hearts are when things fall down.
The dust blinded us. Obscured our clarity,
we surrendered ourselves completely, dumbly,
to the animal stupor of belonging. We were led
by the nose rings of our small selves into the ring
where the spears struck and the crowds jeered
and we bled, stupidly, into the dirt, not realizing
we were bleeding away our power.
But now as we bleed into the Earth, it is our
moon blood we release, offer as a sacrament,
this is the blood of a Magdalene, offered to nourish
the body of Gaia Sophia. This is an honoring, offered
with the clarity of vision that can only come
after you’ve seen everything fall to the ground,
crawled through the rubble with your bleeding
clawing fingers, knees ground on stone, hair
knotted, clotted with the spittle of those whose only offering
is hatred, and the cobwebs you should have cleared
We crawled and finally, we were able to rise,
to stand, wobbly legged, and thin as asps, blinking
at the light penetrating the dust. We saw one another then,
standing so close we could have embraced, had only known
there was someone there to hold us, someone there
to hold onto. And so, finally, we did. We gathered into
a small, tight ring, holding one another up, lifting those
who were still on all fours, stunned from the destruction.
We came together, and the Temple aRose with us, within us,
complete. The sacred space defined by light.
We Rose. We held. We healed. We learned to allow
our thorns to do their work, our blossoms theirs.
We are the High Priestesses, code bearers, scribes.
SHEphia, born of destruction, rising into the Light.