The most beautiful form of Kali
is what you are resisting.
The most beautiful face of Kali
is whomever you are judging.
Until now your words were shadows
of what you meant to say,
titles of hand-me-down angels
learned from the gossip
of the unfriended.
Now you will invent your own language
to describe this terrible realm
of embodied goddesses.
First, abandon belief.
Then relinquish the believer.
A convulsion of longing
keens the silence of your infinite loss.
It is the sign of perfect grieving,
a ululation of darkness,
your new name for light.
Your mouth is the womb of Torah.
Vedas emanate from your eyes,
pure seeing not yet
written in black tears.
You speak a Logos of entangled galaxies.
They flow from your lips on
serpent-green vines,
your groin a cauldron of melted rubies,
topaz wine distilled
from the juice of unsolved koans.
Abba Philoman of Sinai
pronounced this apophthegmata
to a seeker from Rome
who, upon hearing it, fled back
to the city and worshiped Caesar:
"Surely the Word of the Lord
was your own Breath."
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