24: Metis Eats

In his house

Master has books, almighty

to the sky. Mythos, they say.

My feet tell me his rug is not like the grass, was not like the stairs,

the smooth wood, not like the ground, his breath, not like the wind,

his mouth, no flower. There is nothing like my winged flight, the speed

of my belly, the curl of my black hair. My dirty body. His fleshy hands.

If one mind has in it the world,

how do you stay out its mouth, avoid words?

Little cotton clouds is everywhere out the window. His eyes, so high.

My back tells me the rug is just as flat and hard as his weight upon us.

Wetted and taken,

too late to think I should not be up here

to the sky. I

leave myself looking for a new life in me, some new reason; is there a servant

to this moment, is there more a servant than me? He thrusts

my skin aside, casts me down, but I am in his mind.

All those words, faces above me

wrapped in soft turns, bound and glued to their stories; I lie

beneath him, them. In any conversation,

I can imagine, the words break on those faces and fall back into me. I am

this entire story. Up the stairs,

and from me

comes another so wise. A fierce creation of her

will split his world

and she will arrive fully written, armored

by his own skull, wearing his finest thought

as mantle.

My Athena, his hungry creation, will remain the great headache

until he learns to love her.