Poetry
Springlong
Goddess, your son…
O foam-born goddess,
your firstborn plucks at bowstring,
dips arrows in nectar,
shoots hymns at my flesh.
My cuts dance, my blood ululates.
Will you teach him it is a weapon still?
Goddess, your son pulls many a string,
weaves from my longing a peplos green;
he calls it springlong, incenses it in pothos —
the scent of sunlight
grated fine on a platter of plums.
Goddess, your son watches me
watch my reflection in the loom,
climb his green threads,
the topmost bough of a tree, unroot a plum,
sink — drown my teeth in syrupus,
make my skull rot sweetly.
Goddess, he wins.
His laughter spins,
stitches me into the fabric.
Bone splinters to thread;
I am no more than a tale
told on tapestry —
to hang in your halls,
to sing in your name.
Goddess, it is your feast.
Thank you for reading.
💚
