I am the strange woman,
The night-walker on every street.
Above the city's hungry multitudes
I am the lure of the composite HER
Sought by every man but never found.

I am the cheap perfume in the dark hallway
Where the heavy steps of men clomp on the stairway.
Drawn to their fate by the scarlet thread.
I am there in the bitter mocking silence
After the last word that is always mine.

My incense floats above the altar
In the highest Cathedral.
My breath is the air over pine-covered mountains
Shining with fields of snow ever-virgin
Save for the sapphic kiss of the moon.

If you are lonely and would find me truly,
Go then by night to the hill above the city,
Lift up your face, adore and breathe me deeply,
Trusting in my fruitful orient womb
To bring forth morning and the Star of day.

I shall take as lover
The poet who sees in every God my Son,
And in the shape of every God his own
Dark shadow across the heavens magnified,
Burning on the southern cross for me.

I shall kiss away his blood
From the high altar of love's Cathedral,
Transfusing it back to him again
With the Spring's first blossoms,
Giving unto him the right divine
To wear the brazen horns of the King of Glory!

I am the strange woman,
Night-walker in dreams you dare not tell.
Though profligate and saint alike revile me,
I am the black womb of every hope,
The final grave of every sorrow.

~ Victor H. Anderson

© Copyright 1970, 2003 by Cora Anderson.
Used with permission.