And the gods, too, know my name.
Papa Legba stands at the gate,
hat tilted, cane in hand,
opening the road
with a grin that says,
You thought the door was closed?
Child, I own the hinges.
Elegua laughs at the crossroads,
mischievous and exact,
reminding me that every path
has a price, a lesson,
and sometimes, a very necessary detour.
Ogun walks beside me in iron,
clearing the brush,
cutting through confusion,
standing guard over my labor,
my contracts, my courage,
My refusal to be handled carelessly.
Chango arrives with thunder,
red-hot and regal,
teaching me that power
does not need to beg for a microphone.
Obatala places a cool white cloth
over my burning thoughts
and says,
Dignity first.
Then decide.
Orunmila opens the sacred text,
wise, patient, discerning,
showing me the difference
between a sign, a test,
and a distraction wearing cologne.
Osiris rises in green splendor,
lord of resurrection,
whispering about what was buried
was never the same thing
as what was finished.
Horus lifts his falcon eye
over my future,
teaching me to see farther
than the wound.
Thoth sharpens the pen,
patron of language, record, memory,
and every woman
who had to write herself
back into authority.
Anubis walks through the shadow
without trembling,
guardian of thresholds,
keeper of endings,
the quiet escort
When one life is done
And the next one has not yet learned my name.
Ra places the sun on my forehead
and says,
Rise like you mean it.
Ptah gives form to the vision,
turning breath into structure,
word into house,
dream into institution.
Damballa coils through the heavens,
ancient, luminous,
holding the white current
of creation and continuity.
Agwe commands the waters,
Captain of the deep,
guiding ships, prayers, and offerings,
and every woman
Who has ever had to navigate
without a map.
Loco stands among the sacred trees,
rooted and medicinal,
reminding me that healing it
is not always loud.
Sometimes it grows quietly, then it changes the whole soil.
And across the Americas,
The old powers answer.
Quetzalcoatl moves with feathered wisdom,
breath, learning, renewal,
bringing air back
to places where grief
Once sat on my chest.
Tezcatlipoca holds up the smoking mirror,
not to shame me,
but to make sure
I stop lying politely
about what I already know.
Viracocha rises from sacred waters,
creator, maker,
calling order out of distance.
Inti lays gold across the mountains,
sun-father, radiant witness,
reminding me that abundance
does not have to arrive quietly
to be holy.
Tupã speaks through thunder,
and the sky remembers
that sound can cleanse.
And still, the world keeps gathering.
Shiva dances what must end
into sacred release.
Vishnu preserves
What is worthy of staying?
Ganesha removes obstacles
with sweetness and intelligence,
because sometimes the locked door
only needed a wiser hand.
Krishna plays his flute
and reminds the heart
That devotion can still have rhythm.
Apollo brings music, prophecy,
and the clean gold of the sun.
Hermes brings messages, movement,
commerce, wit,
and the blessed ability
to read the fine print.
Zeus has thunder, yes,
But I have discernment,
So even lightning
must come correctly.
Odin brings knowledge
earned through sacrifice.
Thor brings the hammer.
And if any spirit, man, memory,
Or institution mistakes my grace
for permission,
let every god of iron, ocean, sun, storm,
language, road, and resurrection
stand at my back and say:
Not this woman.
Not this time.
Not without consequence.
Because the goddess of gold
does not walk alone.
She walks with mothers and warriors,
queens and tricksters,
scribes and saints,
orishas, lwa, ancestors,
and every holy force
that knows the difference
between spectacle and sovereignty.
She is honey and blade.
Ocean and courtroom.
Perfume and policy.
Prayer and invoice.
Soft hand, sharp eye,
gold mouth, clean exit.
She is not asking
for protection.
She remembers
she was born
with a whole council–
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