The woman’s bust endured the hardships of all ages.
With hammers and whispered words they come.
Chiselling, sniffing, gnawing away, the cracks filled
With their saliva. I thought: this woman gave birth.
This woman had digested and survived what men
Would kill in response to. In her body, she’d find the
Philanthropy, always, keeping her alive, healing her
Wounds. And they’d build chapels around her, in their
Hearts and minds, your hands in mine, our words for
Each other. I’ve heard the horrid voices on the other
Side of the room, the grimaces of defeat, the sinking hole,
Smiling at me as I was talking more to the dead than the living.
I walked in wrath and silent agony, destroying my body one
Step at a time, ceramics and cremation, I had no interest
In the voyage of phoenixes, until I lost almost every single
Piece of myself. One seed was left, nearly crushed, and I
Shattered all the masks, the bonfire bay, and celebrated what I
Finally saw clearly, undefined, ever-growing, ferocious and incandescent.
Croque-Melpomene 