Anna from Thessaly speaks with an accent
as she hurries us along with words from her native
Greek language. At the foot of Mount Kronos
she threads us down the worn paths of crumbling
Olympia, through eleven centuries of the Games,
naked men who ran unfettered to honor, in this order,
themselves their fathers
and their warring cities.

She weaves, intertwining wild
olive branches into wreaths, fingers flying
as deftly as sharpening knives, words
subversive yet flowing like the long forgotten
ribbons of her wedding crown.
At the Stadion, our children, fully clothed
in reticulated history, rerun the race, returning
one stade later, legs pumping hard like Trojans
as Anna grandly lauds them all as winners.
She mentions how women weren't allowed to watch
under penalty of death, how Plato was glad
he wasn't born a slave or a woman.

At Zeus' Temple, we imagine his colossal
chryselephantine statue, bowing our heads
like nervous competitors who sacrificed
weapons for athletic victory. She reminds us of the ban
of 420 BCE when Sparta broke the sacred
Pan-Hellenic truce. It is into this conquering patter
she weaves the voices of women,
of poets and philosophers
like Hypatia who measured the stars
to be then stripped naked and pummeled, her flesh
raddled off with sharp oyster shells, leaving behind
thirteen tomes of algebra that fertilized men
clear through to the Renaissance.

The tour ends standing in front of a bare rock, shadowed
by Hera's Temple and her colossal statue.
The Olympics themselves, Anna weaves into our neurons,
began innocently as a simple footrace among maidens
for the privilege of becoming the moon goddess's priestess.
She places her hand over the limestone, traces of red
still visible on its unfettered surface:

Women, entrained by their frame drums, emerge
chanting, intoxicated by wine and divinity
their black hair flying like long stranded ribbons
... I have eaten from the drum
... I have drunk from the cymbal
Rhythms pass down through mothers
who bear life by the wind
... ... I have entered the inner shrine
Barefoot maenads, we race to the apple grove,
a bull roar erupts as the winner is crowned
to the Lady our Mother, Potnia Mater, the Holy One
... I have eaten from the drum
... I have drunk from the cymbal
... I have carried the sacred dish
... I have entered the inner shrine

The men's race, whispers Anna, began years later
under winter's full lunar night for the privilege
of becoming her annual consort and fertilizing the crop.

He's the hero of Hera. As we pelt him with leaves
we shout 'Hail Heracles!' The two wed, tied with laces
in the sacred orgia (or deed)
... I have eaten from the drum
... I have drunk from the cymbal

In the summer, he'll be wrestled to his death, his flesh
sliced small like oyster shells, his blood then scattered
over the newly sown fields
... I have carried the sacred dish
... I have entered the inner shrine

But he gets tired of dying. He convinces her to extend
his royal life to one hundred lunations or four years and ritual regicide
as he slowly unravels the secret of fatherhood.
When the race is no longer deadly when the race
is no longer deadly, he retitles himself Zeus
makes Hera the daughter of the god Kronos.

The games begin and into these dormant ruins, women
thus became hidden twisted
into the braids of our lives
until Anna from Thessaly (who could draw down the moon)
wove olive wreaths and women's silence triumphant
into the empty conquests of men,..... their fathers
.. and their blood sports

... I have eaten from the drum
... I have drunk from the cymbal
... I have carried the sacred dish
... I have entered the inner shrine





The Snake Priestess

Hidden by wild beach grasses
the drumming circle winds around her
deocil to the right, then widdashin widdashin
hands raised, fingers listen
like wandering skysticks
to the steady beat
on buffalo skins

.. as proud frame drums speak

. I am woman,
. I am moment
. I am now

Her cotton dress floats, legs uncrossed,
naked feet welcome the incoming tide.
As she turns, I stare at
a python its patterned body around her neck

.. its coiled head tucked under her breast

. I am woman,
. I am moment
. I am now

She slides towards me
transferring the snake
up my terrified arm saying

..... its movements will heal me.
V'hanahash haya aroom meekol chayat hasadeh
it claims the serpent was cunning beyond all beasts of the field

. but her eyes, greened by the slanting sun
reassure me this is
the ritual

repeated as it was, this --
before iron, before bronze,
.. even before planted wheat as it was
it is now

I am woman,
. I am moment
. I am now
I take a thick djembe
its painted symbols point to Mother Earth.
It is signed by the teacher
a link one to another
like our bracelets:
American gold welded
to metal from Crete and Egypt links stretched taut
woman to woman through our wrists
our hands beating the mystery of the goddess
the spiraling snake closing in on my throat
my palm flat
... hard on the drumhead

. I am woman,
. I am moment
. I am now, now
. I am woman,
. I am moment
. I am now, now

And then, shedding my last name,
freeing my arms, chest, breasts, thighs,
the serpent opening my eyes
vatifakachnah ene sh'nayhem
their eyes were opened
and they knew they were naked
veyadoo kee aryoomeem heym

while
..... I become sky clad
... hear my own drumbeat
.. the blood pouring down
... between my legs




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