High Priestess

for Crystal

She had come to fold my mounting laundry—
the Relief Society, embodied—
on one of those early hollow days
when I sat frozen and numb, my new baby
(and both of my others) suddenly too heavy to hold,
having searched my heart for mother-love and found only tears.

She was a stranger then, just a name I had seen on the rolls.
She would not let me get up or work with her;
poured me a glass of water and spoke to me gently.
An hour later my small rental was a sparkling house of order,
I was a duckling hatched from darkness to her face.

After that, I followed her everywhere, her curly silver hair
long and loose. The art museum, a gardening lecture: wisdom
streamed from her and I came gleaning. Her Sunday school classes
were a thread in the labyrinth of scripture, guiding us
through names and dates, Greek and Hebrew. When she said
shepherds in the time of Christ were likely female,
I thought of her, and believed it.

When I told her I was moving, she laid her hands
on the sides of my face and wept, telling me to use my voice,
telling me not to be silent. We understood each other.
She kissed my cheeks: the clearest blessing I’ve ever received.

Years later, when I search my mind
for an image of a Heavenly Mother,
her hair is long and curly,
gray and loose and wild.