Her Triumph

In the bosky ring at the year's turn, she said:
you had better learn to be broken.
You had better learn to have it drawn from you
as if by claw and pliers.
You had better heft the boulders upon your chest.
You will call for more before it ends.
The moon will turn red before it ends.
You will swim in the pool at the cave mouth.
I will hold you under until you beg.
Lost in the wood, you will see no pattern.
I will paint your body with my blood
until you are so monstrous
that they brace the gates of the city against you.
No one will hear you.
But you will hear music on the western gale,
your toes will be taproots in the rooky marl
and the constellations will burn your stories down.

I cannot promise you any of this.
Look at me! 
Now: begin.