I walked to the lake tonight,
dark boughs fanned the light
of the moon as I hiked the scree
to see the water. Could only imagine
what was inside—fresh-faced bluegill
who in day shimmer with soft-scale
xylophone iridescence. I closed my eyes,
woke to loose threads spinning wildly
from my mind like Medusa’s snakes, they
raveled and unraveled as I sat moored
on the bank, broken metamorphic rocks 
combined with worn-soft sedimentary stones.
I waited for courage to claim this dark place.
I had travelled there, descended not to Hades,
but to the possibility of cancer’s recurrence.
Maybe if I waited long enough I would find
agates, geodes, escape this nightmare
by panning for gold. The moon grinned at me
deliriously. I stood up to leave, felt the comfort
when I finally came home, the front light shining
on your outrageous wildflower garden. I embraced
the sunflowers, purple coneflowers, black-eyed
Susans, milkweed; I smelled the rose petals. Tomorrow 
the sun will chase away the moon, and there will be 
monarchs and hummingbirds, rubies and diamonds
                        

High in the Rockies, I used to walk the Continental
Divide, my companions Dall sheep and aspen.
I brushed by lichen, forget-me-nots, lime green
moss growing on large boulders. So long ago
 
I embraced the sky as I hiked tundra and valleys.
To look at the mountains set me free. I trekked,
ambled, climbed, camped. I aimed to go far away
from civilization, found others along the way.
 
Now, post-surgery, my scars permanently tattooed
on my chest, I don’t hike the Continental Divide
anymore. I don’t stop to smell lavender, thistle,
aster or Indian Paintbrush. Instead, I dream 
 
of fourth-century BC Scythian women who rode
horses into battle. What spears! What iron daggers!
What perfect quivers and bronze-tipped arrows!
Oh! The perfection of a Scythian bow--small, powerful.
 
Amazon Sisters, what gifts did you give Penthesilea,
your queen? What wounds did you procure? You
smoked pot, got tattooed. You were buried maimed,
scarred, some with legs askance like an isoceles 
 
triangle, as if you were still riding. Next to you lay
horse bones and tackle. I wonder if I could make
a spear out of lodgepole pine, deciduous leaves,
Rocky Mountain maple, fireweed and harebell. 
 
Maybe I should pray to Cybele, goddess of the moon,
like the Amazons did, ask her to carve a path of light
to protect Pink Sisters before they go to battle, before 
they become warriors and go into the dark night