They say that a woman who sleeps alone by night.
Who walks in solitude by day.

Becomes full like the moon.
Becomes in tune with Lilith.

Not ridden from Eden.
Nor outcast from Shamballa.

Something precious hidden for safekeeping.

In the crevasse of the last resort Goddess.
Is an arcane letter.

In spiritual emergency break the glass.

This is not a myth.
It is something my people say.

And we are never wrong.

The truth told to me.
Is the truth of my bloodline.

The gospel of Lilith is written in flesh.
A book made to hold.

If it should fall into the hands of the opposite sex.

All the better.

It will shine through blame.

It will become a love song.

Aisha Wolfe

Photo by Joyce Tennyson

from my forthcoming poetry collection ‘In the Bloodline of Lilith.’