Salt and Dust

I think for now I am done

with goddesses and the pursuit

of backs arched to the sun

hiding strained shoulders

under the pressure of perfection.

The pressure to be not of this world.

I am no goddess.

I am salt and dust.

Human in both by form

and in the way by throat

constricts with grief

and my pulsing heart

expands with longing.

I am no goddess,

residing outside myself

in the sky looking down

from an altar of righteousness

sending lighting and acid rain.

I am made of mud and clay and moss.

A wildflower of joy in the spring,

wilted and browned in the fall.

Turning in on myself as the cold

hardens my skin

and shrouds my heart

with mist and clouds.

I am no goddess.

I am impermanent in this form,

holding each moment

in my shaking hands,

knowing it will never come again.

Knowing this incarnation of mine

is just a single breath.

I will not waste one second

of that breath wishing to be

something else.

Something more holy.

Something more pure.

I am twisted down here

in the roots of the earth

with the aching desire

to feel only and ever

more human.

I worship skin and teeth,

blood and bones,

fur and tears.

Reminds me of the story

of a goddess who cries

salt tears onto her flawed,

blemished and reddened face.

Who lives in a rounded, soft body

of rolls and imperfection.

Who often wakes still tired,

but clinging to the small

light of her hope.

Who curls around her own body

in fear she has lost her radiance.

Remind of those goddesses

and maybe I will change my mind.

Today’s “goddess” is too pure for me.

The animal in me

wants to throw ash

on her flowing white dress,

tear it from her golden skin,

and shake the humanity

back into her.

To bare my fangs

and weep at her feet

and show her all the

things she is missing.