It is a resurrection myth, but in it, unlike in our modern resurrection myths, the divine feminine plays a key role. After the rising sun, Osiris, is murdered, Isis wanders the world and collects her beloved’s body parts. She reassembles him. She resurrects him with her love and magic.
In a world that has forgotten that there was ever a time when the feminine was considered as powerful and divine as the masculine, in a world that sublimates the feminine and elevates the masculine to its own detriment, I think the myth bears repeating. I write from the perspective of Isis often. And my brilliant artist daughter, Desiree Wade, draws and paints her. This is her preliminary sketch for the painting she is working on now. Her work takes my breath away.
And here is my latest Isis poem. I think it’s high time we remembered God is female too. Our world killed her. But she was never going to stay dead forever. Hers is, after all, a story of resurrection. They don’t call her The Phoenix for nothin’.
THE SECOND COMING OF ISIS
This time, I will be prettier.
I will ascend
wearing diamonds in my hair
having cobbled rainbowed wings together
from drum beats
the voices of gods
trapped in rock-n-roll songs
wrapped warm and jagged
in the ragged throats of women.
This time, I will have new ears.
I will be deaf to taunts and reprimands of men
alive to anthems of angels.
This time, my fresh born eyes
will be blind to illusion
unconfused, undefiled, lifted to the profusion
of winged things
that flit through the membrane of space-time
those luminescent specks of heaven
strained out and erased by the stuttering forebrains of mortals.
My someday-sight will be 20/20
and lead me along
a path Invisible to the miracle-blind, malicious eyes of malefactors.
I will tread stepping stones
rooted in the solid rock of Elysium.
This time, I will not walk alone.
that swallowed my armies
will vomit them onto dry land.
The hand of my mother
will wipe Egypt clean
of your graceless, greedy faces.
This time, I will wear chain mail.
You will not see my armor
but I will sport it
in all its transparent glory.
The barbs demons sling
at me will ricochet
and sink back into their own charred, smoke scarred flesh.
This time, charlatans, rapists, murderers, witch hunters, inquisitors,
solicitors of humanity’s basest instincts
I will see you for what you really are.
I will be untricked.
I will slide the aces from my sleeve
and your flaccid deuces will slip impotently
to the floor.
The shinery of your usurpery will be undone.
You will stand naked in the sun
exposed as the un-royal ones you are.
The shit left floating on the ocean’s face
after the shipwreck.
This time I will be immortal because the dead can never die.
Cringing Set, when you slit my throat
I ascended to heaven
kissed seraphim once disguised as men
long dead prophets
ancient warriors born not from the race of Cain
slain by the hands of those
too dumb to know gods when they met them.
I drained three glasses
from the river of life
and drank them.
They burned me to bones
intertwined my mind with the prime mover
shrink wrapped me in god skin.This time I will fly.
Oh, dead things who dream yourselves alive
only the divine ones
know the things I know.
A resurrected thing, I will be the most glorious specter you have ever seen.
Made of mist.
I am coming.
This time I am bullet proof.