III

My Dearest Meadow,

I know why I am here.

There is sacred geometry etched in your eyes, divinity mirrored only in the moon’s reflection on dark waters. It pools in you. Celestial secrets drip from your fingertips, shards of silver stardust, imbued with ancient wisdom. This is what I crave.

Fervent supplication seeps from my soul. I am wholly devout. Plant nails of sacrifice in my palms and let me rise from the stone. Make me marble. Cold, pious stone, carve me of sainthood, venerate me. Alchemical ritual forge me, both saint and stone. Drain the blood from my veins and let me hemorrhage depravity. Pluck my eyes from their sockets and grant me vision. Guild me in reverence and solidify me in stone. Tether me past, present and future. Temporal and eternal, divine triptych, bound maiden, mother, and crone.

Do not let me rot.

Show me what it is to be both waxing and waning. Teach me to swallow snakes, digest their venom, and pull wisdom from my teeth. Drip arcane secrets to my ears and show me where the duality resides. I ache to find the light in the shadow. Dissolve me and reconfigure my atoms.

Let beatification begin, a divine mantle draped upon me. Let them worship. Devout pilgrimage and prayer to absolve me. Adorn me in offerings, garlands of light and tokens of devotion. Celebrate my sanctity with sacrifice. Monumental embodiment, standing as a singular altar. This is tradition.

Always yours,

Dorothea B