by Jana Astanov
Was she the goddess of hell,
some geomancy
invoked by boulders to birth
her fertile soils’ rotational epochs
black gold
then
raised from the prehistoric ashes?
she the holy
she the time
she the underworld
us the underground
breaking the patchwork of re-engineered land
oil tanks industrial ports 4th generation windmills
Holy Gertrude
the ascended mother
of the great escape.
With one small incision in the iris
the air becomes thick like steel
futuristic and quantum.
Let’s toss handfuls of rocks, seeds, paints
have a beer, sing songs, fuck poetic ravens
and proust and down a glass of rose
fueled by beltane’s sun rays
inhaling exhaling
by the dwarfs cafe and the acoustic stage
circling the village mudra
praying in all directions
turning the infinity wheel
and opening invisible passages
to the dimension
of bells
under my skirt
of pre-christian
anarchist
acid
is she
Gertrude KaliMa
Ruigoord, May 2021
About the author
Jana Astanov is an interdisciplinary artist, a poet and an independent curator living in the Shawangunk Mountains. She is the author of five collections of poetry: Antidivine, Grimoire, Sublunar, The Pillow Book of Burg, and Birds of Equinox. Follow her on IG @Jana_Astanov & Twitter @JanaAstanov
