Chinnamasta

My crescent sickle

cuts through fear’s confusion,

lies’ illusion.

I behead

reason

(full mother moon flipped

to mysterious dark)

for reasons of My own.

My naked neck

spouts poetry

(three dreaming streams.)

Copy Me!

Open to receive

compassion’s flood,

cycling womben’s blood,

inheritance of good,

(wise wound, remedy severe,

My severed, ‘castrate head,’

sweet clit!)

There is no need

for man-shed blood

of ignorance, of violence, of hate.

Yoginis! (So skinny!)

I Am the endless font

of all you want.

© Tamara Rasmussen 2018