Hymnal
great is the gift to all
now you’ve stopped praying
in the square houses built by men
ceased measuring your feminine reach in men-sticks
ended thinking in the aphorisms of your father
and the fantastical fathers before him
your victory here is our victory here
though we may yet refuse to accept it
ancient is the wisdom
dancing in the forest
now that you’ve refused to sing
the hymns from our books
with the words you speak
and those you will not utter
about what to skirt
deep is the healing
now that you've abandoned the old instructions
for ripping up and standing down
halted the futile efforts at deciphering
the unintelligible carvings
on the doors of failing churches
where your sisters were told to hide
traded the raw pain
of the carpenter’s tools
that bled your hand
for the sudden prick from thorns
of the wild blue-flowering bush
that you understand
sacred is the blessing to the earth
now that you no longer deny
the desire to be your own
to set about without conviction
over these threats and objections
on the winding task
of deciding for yourself
what is worth achieving
now and forever
laughing at the punch line
of god’s eternal joke
who cares what comes
new is the beginning
now that you believe again
in the green mettle of nettles
the cool comfort of moss
the meddlesome cough
of your uncomfortable truth
for you are
the knot never undone
nourished by the sound
and silence of the one voice
that is your voice
what matters
what we think will fill you up
when you no longer cede
us power to judge
when that for which
we would indict you
is nothing but
what we have become
your victory here is our victory here
though in doubt and confusion
we may yet not live to see it
there is no lost needle
no haystack no imperative
to count grains of sand
washed clean by waves
no reason to tally
green leaves
tough grass
where a dress
stained at
the hem
once swept
the lawn
at the bottom
is the hope of all
who came before
that you might
just might
give name
to the lie
in all our telling