Читать книгу The Holy Wild - Danielle Dulsky - Страница 8

The Closest to Prayer

I dreamt of a Crone with sharp teeth and tough skin.

She bit down to my bone but found no sin.

I wasn’t afraid: “Please tell me your name!

Where have you prayed? Have you no shame?”

This Witch hissed, and she painted my face with cold mud

Then she kissed where she’d bitten and lapped up the blood.

“When do you pray?” I asked of her then.

“By night and by day, as only we can.”

“What do you mean, you vicious old beast?

Who is your God? Tell me, at least.”

“The bark and the stone, the wind, and the fire.

The flesh and the bone, the grief and the ire,

The brook and the bird, their land hums my prayer.

So long have I heard the Holy Wild sung there.”

“Why did you bite me? Answer me that!

Was it only to spite me? To taste of my fat?”

“I bit you to wake you, my Priestess, my dear.

Lest a sweeter dream take you but tame you by fear.”

I opened my eyes, and I was alone.

Back in disguise and missing the Crone.

To hear her dare speak of the breeze, brook, and flame;

It’s the closest to prayer that I’ve ever came.