Chapter 2: The Second Dance – The Goddess

 

She comes to me in my sleep,
           as though she could possess virtue.
On a day where I am feeling generous,
I can believe it is her way of being compassionate.
What cannot be true during the day can be true in my sweet nightmare.
On a night like tonight,
          where I awake with bitterness in my mouth
                      and fleeing memories in my mind,
                                it is nothing but cruel.

She knows my weakness.
I can never say no to her while I sleep.
In those early moments before I can shake myself from the terror at hand,
          we tangle together in jealousy and something like truth.

She hands me a glass to drink from,
          and in my dreamlike mind I can see the ocean.
In a small cup in my hand, I see waves and gulls
          and turtles and tiny fluttering fish and
                  even a whale.
She tells me I am like this chalice,
          that through me you could see a woman.
Only when her lips leave my cheek and my eyes creep open,
           do I truly comprehend her disdain.

A timid knock at my door.
Twice in one night is unusual, even for the beast.
I call out to him,
         this time with more silk in my voice.
He would not come again unless he was desperate.
I would not answer unless I was equally so.

He does not reply.

I pace around my walls,
         briefly regretting my previous fantasy of entrapment.
Can it be fantasy if you live it?

I have stepped out into the halls before,
          heels clicking against stone,
                   and regretted it.
Confinement here is better than what awaits me there.

We continue our game of detente.
I will not escape, and he will not hunt me.
He will not encroach, and I will not summon the Goddess.

There is love in these gestures,
          twisted as they may be.
As cruel as the two of us are, tied together on a long string,
          the Goddess will escalate further.
Am I locked in here with him, or the beast with me?
It is neither,
           for the Goddess holds both of our keys.

Having confirmed the beast will not enter,
I return to my closet and peel away the lovely gown I wear.
Lace is itchy,
           and I have found this to be the worst truth in womanhood.
I expected the rest.
Nothing that hands me to myself sits comfortably on my skin.

And despite what the movies have told me,
           the clicking of heels doesn’t empower.
I only regret the attention,
            resounding off of the large and empty corridors of stone.
It is no different out there in the world.
The men have their trucks, circling like sharks.
The women, that knowing stare.

This is my Frankenstein, the hubris of born-women,
            while I, her assembled monster,
                        wonder why Shelley above
                                     needed to create either of us.

What cruel irony it is, such that neither the women,
           nor Shelley,
                   nor the Goddess could foresee,
That I am now in stalemate with my own monster.

******

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There are eyes in my mirror,
ones that the late night cannot shield me from.
To be natal is to be God,
and she is always watching.

******

 

I have seen visions.
In them, the woman felt responsibility enough to cough into elbow:
          Whore clothes,
                  as I passed.
She couldn’t even say it proudly.

Why bow in worship?
Should I bend knee at each goddess who passes,
             aching for her touch, her blessing,
                       a bestowment of the belonging that will always dangle out of reach.

I tremble for the day a man might select me first.
As I prostrate myself before him,
            his eyes unable to meet mine,
I know she is there. She will always be there.

God is a woman.
More accurately, women are my God,
            and they have not been benevolent.
I will grovel, begging for a gift she will pretend to give.

The men I understand, and have understood.
When his fist doesn’t kill me,
I will raise my eyes to the Goddess.
           She heals me, always stroking my cheek and dropping a hand to my thigh.
                    I will live, she tells me.

In her garden, I may rest.
In her garden, I may even play.
She will feed me her scraps,
and I will kneel at the table,
loyal beyond all measure.

There is one rule, she commands,
            and I see it in her eyes. It’s there,
                     it’s always there.
You may eat of any of the fruit in my garden,
any and all.

Her downward gaze speaks me into existence
             as I wait at her feet.
I am drunk on her grace,
             eager to prove my zeal, my devotion.

You may eat of any of the fruit in my garden,
             her eyes meet mine for the first time,
                       as my prophesy empties me onto the floor.

But you must eat it out of my hand.

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