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.
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 4:22 PM UTC
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.