For aeons the goddess
rolled her eye
like Polyphemus*
across infinity’s skies
lowering her gaze lazily
In disdain of each fourth week,
Her beauty dismayed
the cavemen
as they crowded
round their cathedral
spires from the sun.
Shuddering with fear
and cold they
understood
the fanning of such
astral lashes
would beat out this
same pitiful flame . . .
especially if they closed their own eyes–
she had also an ugly side.
Thief, she stole
her light from day–
though they never could have explained that–
they merely knew
she’d steal theirs too.
So they meted out
their tribute
and despite her
absconding ways
she proved constant,
ushering in their plantings and harvests,
welcoming
every offspring,
towing her barge of tides.
She stayed throughout
all floods and famines,
scudded under clouds
and indolent stars,
odd times aberrant and
apocalyptically
hiding. But always
she returned with promise,
sliding her
Mona Lisa gleam
across heaven’s dark face.
All men craved her.
Hours they stood
on lonely beaches,
sentinels scheming
to master her;
for centuries they prayed
and wrote her lyrics,
offering their souls
for consumption: the bond
was symbiotic.
And in my lifetime
I have seen men
plunder her;
never will she
be the same.
Rejoicing victory,
the seed of male
was meant for all;
yet she, and she alone
would flower
by metaphor.
Now men have held her
in their hands and
she has turned to stone.
Eyeless, the cyclops weeps.