Crone
I crawled into an old woman’s cave
in search of wisdom
and she slapped me hard and down,
beady brow, dark spark
dart in her eye.
“Go back, young woman!”, she screamed without temperance.
“I’ve got nothing here, but lies and abuse,
torn panties from my daughter’s rapes.
A broomstick with which I used to beat my son!
Why don’t you help me, now, and get on with it?!”
tossing me down the hill,
rocks knocking my head and spine,
onto a mesa,
wide as my eyes,
with ocean clinging to its edges.
A crow screamed and
I heard her old voice in my head say,
“There’s no war on the way to peace.”
and then
“When you’re finished,
bring me some washing water.”