Come to where the vessels wait,
high-shelved and empty,
to the dust of the forsaken
poised for your anointing hands.

The paved ways of patriarchs
plunder your groves and secret places,
the fruit you accept is peccant with tyranny
and the sterile seed of promise.

Shed this badge of ignominy;
your ripening lies in a desert
free of boundaries or in-roads,
where the wellsprings of sibilant tides
lie bootlegged and buried in sand.

Seek out the kingdom amid the dunes;
spread your body beneath the memory of words—
your spirit will mingle with the winds
exhaled from sidereal lips,
and the lost ones calling from inside
will crown you with a new name—

they are the ones you’ve always known,
and you
are their queen.

(c) Seth Grube