Myth of Me

I have a moist woodsy smelling memory
of the lady in the lake.
With hair of flowing phlox
and petticoats of shimmering waves–
She ascended through the waters,
arms upstretched and
a sword in her right hand.

She smiled and offered it.
As I swam toward her
she vanished into the morning mist
But the sword was left floating.

I remember running through the forest
looking for the old man
To show him my sword.
He said, “Now your feet must dance on your toes,
and your breath must sing through your face.”

I remember when I found my inner voice
The ringing sound of it
The way resonance feels fuzzy
in my face and chest.
It was modulated with
The song of Calliope and
she still breathes me.

Without mother, without father, without offspring
Without beginning or end of day
Both male and female
I am as Melchizedek
I am a priest forever
and I still have the sword.