OK the book then moves into the spiritual quest
that accompanies all of this.
And we go back to the Shekinah, that sacred feminine being.
Prayer to the Shekinah.
In my prayers, night and day, is the hope that you will visit me,
which possibly you have been doing
all the while inside my skin.
Producing hymnodies of birth, of lamentation.
Lifted from every mass grave in the world.
Scratching me, pinching me from inside.
Calling me an idiot since I do not
know how to reach you by myself in the carapace of this body,
struggling like the turtle to move as fast as I can
and not get run over crossing the street.
You at a distance, beloved.
My mother, my daughter.
You at a distance.
My soul, who remains at a distance.
They say you will travel to meet me if I travel to meet you.
Pity I am so slow.
But I'm grateful for the handful of past moments you have
spoken to me, spoken with me.
The fool who hoped to be counted among the poets,
weeping along the path to her own soul.