Shamhat

Two miles away from you may your lover tremble with excitement,
one mile away may he bite his lip in anticipation

I would have journeyed to him unbidden,
my path from the temple fated and traced
by sandaled feet, dusty but eager
in their purpose, the way we find our gods.

What lives in him would spark
the fuse that drives and draws me
beside the spring where he comes to drink,
where I will lie down, naked and spread under sun
for the man who runs with deer.  

I have an appetite for gods
or the man ridden by them, still smelling
of the clay that shaped him, struck with light;
a man with hair longer than my own,
whose kisses taste like wild grass.

I am the one who opens and is taken
but when he stands again and turns
back to the deer, they no longer know him.
Like Delilah, I will cut his hair,
but openly, because love tames–
how many wild things are broken
by the women who lie under

***Italicized words are from Enkidu’s blessing to Shamhat, from the epic of Gilgamesh, via Stephen Miller.

 

***My choice for NaPoWriMo.  The prompt suggested using a non-Greek mythological source, so I went to Babylon for this one.  This is a slight edit of a poem I did a year ago.  It fits too nicely into the prompt to not use it.

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Bibliomancy Oracle Prompt #1 (prey)

I know silence.  I know
standing apart and waiting
the approach of a fox,
the shadow of a hawk
sharper than any cloud
floated across mud.
I know that dark, implied,

The bite of it,
the promise,
the prayer a pulse can speak
staccatoed, without breath
or words.

 

***today begins my attempt at NaPoWriMo 2014.  That’s a poem a day for 30 days.  I went to Bibliomancy Oracle and got the following lines to use as inspiration for this odd and dark little sketch that might evolve into a deeper piece later on:

Don’t flinch. Don’t join in.
Resist the righteous scurry and instead
stand still, silent as prey. Slowly turn

from “Wife’s Disaster Manual” by Deborah Paredez

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weeds

No matter how often
we are trimmed, pulled,
sprayed into submission
with tear gas or roundup
we riot

we grow, we grow tangled
beautiful in spite of ourselves
and in spite we call living
we seed and go
where air takes us

we fly and these roots
grasp deep where we make them
blooming a so yellow rebellion
the way dandelions between the cracks
know it

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perception

If you saw me
and not my colors peacocked
on a page

if you saw the thin mouth
the flat feet

you would say this woman
knows more about bread baking
and when to plant seeds

than that precise moment
before the crocus blooms
before the swallows
nest under eaves

you would say this woman
knows nothing of how air softens to spring
the riot we call running of sap,
and little about opening

but she does, I do

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caught up
in the spell of moments

sunrise
is an incantation

of morning
a ritual turning of earth

we forget
the swell of time

that perfect or imperfect wave
we have no choice

but to catch or roll under

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for the families

Our widow’s walks are empty.
Nobody is ever lost at sea anymore,
not forever.

We want debris to sift through, the black box
tracking mechanical last moments.

We need to number the bones
in their sleep, and hope
through all our counting
and accounting
there was no suffering

but there are no instruments
to calculate and store pain, or loss
once they are spent.

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box canyon

You shout
after the after brings silence

but nothing answers
except this echo

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