Far more nervous for nightfall than I’ve been
for a while. Gloaming, some call it. The time
when paths open. — If I could leave my skin,
walk soft there, I would. I can’t. That sublime
skill is beyond me. The most that I do
is wait down by the crossroads for her guide.
Amenamair: a name the ancients knew.
The All-Mother. In last night’s dusk I spied
in the willow where her queer owl singsonged.
I have never been this close to an owl
before or had such a song burn in me:
“Amenamair. I have longed. I have longed.”
I long to leave my skin. I long to prowl.
I long to be your song in that dark tree.
Just as Odin, in Norse lore, is called the All-Father, one of the many names of Lilith, in Armenian (the ancient language that I keep going back to), is Amenamair (Ամենամայր), the All-Mother.