I tried to write a warning
in chaste trees and pumpkin vines:
the worst men of our lives will return
to us in more ways than one.
Preordained, how women must watch
this reincarnation of cursed stone,
the curdled constellations
of anger and loneliness you men re-write
and call myths of heroes. Call yourselves heroes.
Don’t you ever learn? I am the goddess
of law and order. I am the goddess of food
plants and cereal grain. Without agriculture
your precious bank note civilization
collapses into slag. Your precious
small farms. You treat them how you treat your women:
admonished husks, aberrant gourds.
I am the guardian of women and girls
in their times of transition,
the points when they’re most vulnerable. Which means
at all times, which means I cannot protect them.
My name translates: to grow. Did you know
I was chained? From him I birthed
another daughter along with the child
of a horse. You want to say, I did this to myself.
If I had not lived
in this body. If I had not run. Was it a son?
Even the goddess of vessels becomes a vessel.
The summers you created broil your crops
and your cities. You’ll fight long wars over water
that evaporates into smoke.
Perhaps you have forgotten? Your stars were never
undying. The Fates are women, also.