And what of the thick-thighed woman

            who held a dying god in her lap?

            History has silenced her grief to stone.

But what of endurance as sharp as love?



Do Zeus’s tears still stain her dress?

            Her atlas hands guide thorned crowns

            To rest, as the weight of heaven

forsaken, collapses.



Womb made machine;

           Reach out your hand and feel the crimson––

           Hips that birthed the civilizations of the world,

I worship the god called woman.