The mysterious Maiden Blavatsky
Beneath all language
Floated into the room
Like a corpse carried out.
Hush. Murmur.
Spinning eyes filling emptiness seen and unseen.
She spoke. We trembled.
What was written hiding in the cloven
Air settled as dew
On her lips.
Her speech was vapor, her mind
A cloud dense with thunder.
Then
She pointed a finger at me.
My startled gaze routed by her recognition,
The air around me
Began to taste of fennel and
My will transformed to talisman
In the fluid shape of blood.
Umbriate Press Poetry 