You don’t know me, she said, but I am the woman who will heal you.
I am Moses’ serpentine rod staring my anti-venom into you.
No, you are mistaken. I am not the woman who loves you.
I am the woman who heals you; my blood is serum, my voice balm.
My motives are divine, but my hands and words knit with purpose
from the skeins of yarn untangled from your broken loom.
No, I am not your mother, your sister, or Facebook friend.
I am the woman who heals you with aloe and proverbs.
Now be quiet and close the doors inside you to all castigations.
Open to not a new day but a new world fresh as hyacinth.
I am Moses’ serpentine rod staring my anti-venom into you.
No, you are mistaken. I am not the woman who loves you.
I am the woman who heals you; my blood is serum, my voice balm.
My motives are divine, but my hands and words knit with purpose
from the skeins of yarn untangled from your broken loom.
No, I am not your mother, your sister, or Facebook friend.
I am the woman who heals you with aloe and proverbs.
Now be quiet and close the doors inside you to all castigations.
Open to not a new day but a new world fresh as hyacinth.