Beata Beatrix by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
I am a fallen angel, struck by
the thunderbolt of wonder and desire,
exiled to a destiny of solitary emancipation.
But, hear me, now:
I am also a woman of truth.
And so, I must, you know . . .
I must transport myself into
a certain willingness that embraces
this brave new autonomy.
I must enact this deepest form of
worship that knows not how to ask,
but only to receive.
I must open, submit . . . believe.
I have wandered in a Dantean limbo
for eternity. And, I have fallen . . .
risen . . . and fallen again.
I seek the promise of relief.
The sky will soon be evening-gowned
in black silk and brilliant diamonds.
The oil-smooth river will ripple like mercury
beneath the milky glow of the moon.
The owl will weep once more.
And, I? I will fall
like a lush tree in a postmodern forest.
who will witness this . . . ?
No one will hear my cries.
And so, I must . . .
I must this rebirth allow.
I must this Self redeem.
