Shall I tell you what I know of the ancient godling?
He courted me and I was drunk with eager love.
He gazed at me between guileless birches
with whole-eyed looks from everlasting domes.
Wherever light was washed by yellow and green,
he appeared to me. I lifted my eyes to his hands
and flung my heart up to expand in a firmament
feathered with gale-souled treetops.
If he had come as a man, I might have loved him always.
But I had to put him down. “Idolater!” I said.
I buried him before he was quite dead.
“What have you done?” he whispered.
“I did not masque me as a god, but you!
Why, I have seen the real God face to face!”
Only you could have slaughtered your ancient love for your error!
How will you now live, foolish woman?
I am more than robber of flesh and reader of poems!
How will you wash dishes, tell stories, teach your son to dance,
without me, how will you
laugh at a stubbed toe, drive miles to see an old friend?
How will you bear the drudgery, how will you love
your own body?
How will you pray, silly old crone?”
Then he expired. If only he had spoken sooner.
But I have bad luck, and my timing is poor.
With Eros has died the unbending zeal
“It is written, thou shalt have no other gods.”
I shake my head and sip a wine
I cannot taste.