hera

see the depth – it is forever,
the swirling, ever-changing meaning of
her role – a never fixed mark.
she has the power of no men – but bestows her own and may
give earth, breath, birth,
through lurking in the recesses could be
medusa, monster, myth, or man.
giving life is giving freedom -
when does the giving end?
she may stop after infinity,
for even after moving past life
there are shrines, temples, paintings;
giving to the faceless worshippers
some solace, or secret strength
to be held on the inside – never revealed.
it is not immortality,
it is piecing yourself away to strangers
and kin alike, whether giving
judgement, giving topic, meaning,
rarely taking or receiving a return.
what is the best way? to win the heart
of the world – the heart of men?
capture their lust, their pants and desire
and they will see you as a woman.
or you may appeal to their minds and achieve a meeting –
command, be wise, and go that way
they will see you as a woman.
for when do men stop being men?
i say, they never have.
would women stop being women?
and lose all encompassing change?
to be celestial, to be a harlot
and still be the same.
only birthing divinity and to be
remembered only in connection –
attached, though the breast was giv’n up long ago.
a woman means being a fluid object –
feet set firmly in reality –
she may spray her milk to create what she chooses,
choice being what is claimed as her own.
perhaps she will be a tyrant, a jealous queen,
but who would accept such terms?
no man, for certain – so she rips at her hair,
she plots and stops, she fails and succeeds
and mortals think her the lesser, the weaker,
but she holds the pomegranate in her fist
endless seeds contained in a globe of blood;
flesh holding her in the palm of her hand
to protect or to kill, to provide or withdraw.
she will be everything – she will cry out
with frustration at her station in life:
a goddess but not a god – divine but not a man.