Wednesday, February 9, 2011

So stuck on the goddess, I have to see her for myself. Her image is a prism:


In her belly the world grew and swelled. Once it rose into heaven before her with stars swimming around, she squeezed bits of wax between her fingers and threw them on the ground.


To these little specks that would become people, she said, wherever you land, I cannot lead you or make you happy. I give you the world and life. Find your way.


She holds the moon in her hands and aims its borrowed light into a night sky. Those little men will see the curve of her face in the stars, and mistake her hair for moonlight. She fades and changes for the morning.


From within a blinding sky she is a shadow. Men will tattoo her shape on their skin and wait.


The goddess is imagination. Men must stop following and suffering and reaching for treasures their hands are not shaped to hold.


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