Poem: I am Woman #the100dayproject Day 98

I am Woman 

I suppose my faith is taken lying down 

missionary pose, hands bound together in prayer, 

strung with red leather string. I drop my blood like an offering. 

To whom? All I know is this ritual is all for myself. 

All faith is ritual onto self. I pray for myself onto others. 

I give my thoughts to them as if I were omnipresent, 

powerful enough to change into God himself, channel him. 

I am no conduit, but in my faith I pray to pretend my body divine. 

My faith written in my half-moon cycle.  

My blood marks the mundane into sacred. My body the only ritual. 

My curves, my breasts, my blood, my lips, move into a circle. 

I am the only ritual that requires no dried old men 

chanting into their cloisters of stone, their empty temples. 

My ritual smells of wet earth and tastes like coffee grounds. 

My ritual sings om, om, om, om. The sacred rhythm, 

the heart beating, the blood pulsing, the ecstasy, the om.