Her Wrath Is Holy: Fury and Verses for the Witch-Activist.
Come with me, Witch. My bared teeth still drip with my own blood, but I will bite my tongue no longer.
Bruising my rib cage from the inside is a wild, writhing ball of concentrated rage that will not let me sleep, and I am now more sharp-sighted wolf than soft-bellied crone. My feminine ire has reached a critical mass, and I have kicked my cauldron over to scry visions of sandy battlefields and severed limbs.
I have seen black skies and clocks moving in reverse, and I have pulled the Tower, Death, and Nine of Swords reversed more times than I can count. I am the wounded world in agony. I am a fervent prayer to wake from this nightmare, and I am the soul-deep memories of the hunted woman. My wrath is holy, and I won’t stop howling.
We must leave our warm homes now, my love. We must scrawl protection sigils on our wombs and take to the streets. We are the ghosts of burned healers, and they will not put us back in the ground today. By the power of three times three, as we will it, so mote it be. This is what we were born for, Witch. Claim your birthright. Remember all you stand for.
You are the shaking hand stretched to reach the children of the future as they dangle from the cliff’s edge above the molten lava of power-hunger and madness. You are the medicine woman unleashing a banshee’s cry at the old men marching outside of the abortion clinic. You are the Maiden dancing a body-prayer for clean water, and you will not rest. Your wrath is holy, and you won’t stop howling.
We are not just green glittery candles carved with dreams of personal prosperity. We are the binding spell for the newly crowned King’s fragile arrogance. We are not just Imbolc altars and whispered incantations. We are whole-body, guttural roars against those who would seek to tame our daughters and control our wombs. Do not let them question the autonomy of your body.
Open the doors to your temple and invite the devil in, for we need him now more than ever. Your darkest shadows and your deepest wounds are the healer’s paste for our ailing society; keep them closeted no longer, for they are the renewable fuel for your fem-fire. Let us transmute this collective torment to soul-born action.
Leave the oracle cards in their boxes for now, and do not waste your precious magick on anything other than the preservation of our wild world. Our wrath is holy, and we won’t stop howling.
I am the right to choose, and I won’t stop howling. I am a livable minimum wage, and I won’t stop howling. You are the soldiers kneeling before the Standing Rock tribe, and you won’t stop howling. You are the demand for media transparency, environmental justice, and corporate responsibility. You are Black Lives Matter. You are an open gate and stamped passport.
You are relentless investigation of institutionalized racism all over our bleeding system. You are open eyes and clenched teeth. You are dragging the instruments of corruption out of the dark and into the light, setting ablaze the back-pocket bribes, dummy corporations, and masked alliances with the most inflammable feminine ire that has ever existed.
You are the change-agent, Witch, and you won’t stop howling.
Chant with me, Sister, for the Goddess will not descend in a cloudburst of warm, pink rain. She will erupt from below and claw her way skyward from the mud. She will not stand down while her children are punished for being born in a nation deemed inferior. She is not just the soft-breasted and kindhearted grandmother. She is the venom-fanged Maiden with moon blood dripping down her thighs.
She is not just the weeping, wise woman mourning for a raped forest. She is a skull-belted and fork-tongued demoness who is their worst nightmare. She is teeth in the vagina. She is a vengeful Mother whose blood boils with righteous indignation against the enemy of her children. She will not apologize for her low vibrations, and She will not stand down.
She is the smoke-rise of the Sacred Feminine emanating from the ground beneath our bare feet, and we feel Her. She is bloodthirsty and painted with pentagrams. Hear Her heartbeat and march with me now to the steps of government buildings. Let’s bleed on their steps. She is with us. Her wrath is holy, and She will not stop howling.
So mote it be.