When I get close to you
Close enough to smell you
Your animal smell
The coarseness of your hair
Eyes popping out with hyper focus
Fangs dripping with release

I find my gaze at the level
Of your reflective mirrors
I see myself
Angry and flailing
In some forever crib where no one lives

Looking down at the sword
I am supposed to point at you
And I can’t
I have done it too many times
Poking gaping holes in you
For your smelly breath
All of your ridiculous mishaps and bad decisions
Screaming, throwing, jumping around
Dancing your blazing fire dance
I am burnt out
I have no interest in any more pokes

Because if I poke you, I really am still poking myself
And I want all of me now
The fangs, the bulging eyes, smelly breath
Reminding me of my slow decay

I gaze at your beautiful hair
Multi colored and hanging in the wait of a breeze
I see the shining gold at your forehead and sense an immediate opening
In recognition of our deeper knowing

The sword lifts towards the space between us
Point upward
Slicing the split between you and I

The blade lowers as a gesture of regard
The kindest I can offer in this new territory of trust
My heart longs to love your face
Not a mask
But a portal into the understanding
Of what it means to be whole

You, Rangda, are
My mother
My father
My brother
My sister
My lovers, all of them
My husbands
My son

All of whom I have judged and show my fangs
Pointing the sword
I slide the blade back into its sheath
Like a penis gone limp
Resting in its foreskin
After a good fuck

I lay it down between us
In that place of fresh new understanding
Flashing
Sparkling
Bright light
On the dark place of severe wisdom

In the imaginal
I am making a crown out of my mishaps
A ring of knowledge that rests around my head
With many fine jewels
Some were easy to excavate
On the surface
And then there are those that I got so dirty and grimy in the findings

I am sure there are still so many more
should I live even a moment longer
Perhaps in this knowing
In this trusting moment
I am more willing to dig
Knowing the beautiful gems I can find
If I am willing to get dirty
To smell
And feel your decay and your beauty

To the magic in your checker  “court jester tassels”
I surrender