“
the gods
are not dead. when men speak to me like i can’t read, i
feel athena awaken somewhere in my bone structure. her mouth
spits words i had forgotten i memorized, facts from the deep
pockets of libraries. she revels in the way they stutter at the
quickness of my tongue, whispers, here’s what it feels to
be above the cities. i know demeter for the way i feel in dirt,
i catch sunlight in my palms and beg people to be disgusted at
girl unhaunted by pretty, my hair a mess and my legs hairy and
my body thick. i’ve kissed aphrodite, i’ve met her
not in l.ust only but in the girl who
listens like she is tied to your soul. she comes out and we go
dancing, unashamed of our sexuality. i have even been her, once
or twice, on rare moons where the stars aligned. i know the
rage of artemis. i hunt those who hurt my sisters, i slay
demons, i run in night with red lips. and i am persephone,
always, goddess of the spring, goddess of the pomegranate, of
wanting, of riding her own horse to hades, of being two queens.
when men take power from me, i hear her whispering. take it
back, she says, tongue sweet, ambrosia in the blood stream,
take back your city.
— the gods
are not dead. they live in women. they live
in me.
