by Lisa Golda Shields
Wednesday, July 09, 2003
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This piece is part of what I call the Cassandra series.
These poems came from a deep well inside me---most wrote themselves.
You see only the light dappled,
catching hints there and here
that another might dance
within this mortal skin.
I call myself a gypsy
with a wry smile,
and confess a fear of dark places
you cannot comprehend,
but then you are not chained
in the same way, brother of night.
All my life I knew the ripples
when time folded to itself,
and a face would seem deathly white
all others saw as hale,
and when the call came
it was never a shock to me,
deep shadows of the scrying bowl
where once I stood,
slave to eyeless site,
and other seeing.
At times I am uneasy,
for I feel another self lurking
just below the thinnest of my skin,
I do not look too close,
not because I fear,
but because I know she waits
to resume the task of ancient days,
I know the rose attar of her ungents,
and if I dance away
it is because she knows someone too well,
cares nothing for grace or pity,
and she longs to spin my skin
into the cloak she wore
beneath the merciless night,
when they called her priestess,
and all was there for her to see,
in the mirror of the scrying bowl
she hid in her soul.