Monday, July 6, 2009

Goddess of the Palm

[note: I'm rewriting this poem every day]

World, child, my imaginal pattern, my namesake.
I throw myth and a caution to the midnight sapphire,
light stuck fires to warm goddesses and their rapists.
In my sky, women not ignored. In my pointillist
galaxy each constellation, a you-are-here arrow.
I made town square an eternal pillory of loneliness
and reckoning (a way to find your way). Mars
raped Rhea Silvia: Romulus, Remus, Lac Lupinum
[wolf milk]. Howdy, Rome. Legend’s old as lust
doomed as pride embedded in our helix vining
up a trellis tra-la. They gave me a watering can
small for a little girl which I was until confusion
cured that. Elevation’s for a few good women
and holies and what a word strolling along our
red carpet tongues. I glory in forward motions.
Like Hephaestus forging thunderbolts for Zeus
(they’re very male), we’re lucky if crippled.
The limping god is myth’s Michelangelo and
what’s his name’s shield our lame one’s Sistine
Chapel, envisioned weddings and war, cattle
and sheep, women and lightly oiled men.
We overly love standard bearers and our gestures
not enough. Oh ladies, pity our everyday mischief,
our cherished
thinking. Oh my and tra la and la.
I was to detail constellations and unambiguities
of morality, venality. I was to set it right. Er, uh.
We are feral, but no one’s perfect. Look up, up.

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