Athena, long-limbed and armor-clad,
is curled up in the gashapon of my skull–
kicking, unborn babe, I can feel her toes
, the bone
cracking (mine, not hers
(her muscles are mightier
; mine shred and quiver me;
I am the dragon-roar of her aegis; my face
is laden with the bent brow
of her gorgoneion; her spearpoint pricks
my skin a thousand times and goose orbs rise
Leech-like, she sips wisdom from varied lobes
, eats the war right out of me, but
I don’t have much to offer.
I’m a meager treat, not full course fare,
and the poor gal needs to feast,
needs to gather the strength she needs
to hatch, waddle, run. Soar.
We humans have situated war and peace at opposite ends of some symbolic spectrum
and here I am in the middle, twisting with the uncomfort of pink-matter thunder
doubting whether I have what it takes to birth a god.