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Word from dream, the act of becoming, then woman
From Eve to Anat, the rib dribbled on the sand
Love and worship from dust of conviction life's promise claimed
And we from altar to grave turned, wounded and maimed
What is left but the pouring of desire, the moon
Exciting the fragile heart, the grateful ruin.

I have seen the Greek King's eyes Helen strucked and sad
Heard blind Samson cried, and for death saw he was glad
It was God first who made metaphor of the race
And put upon the world a woman's charm and face
So all men somewhere because of women shall die
Hence worship too appeases terror from the eye.

Leave them alone, leave them alone, our texts and dreams
The pondering and plunder of blind mythic schemes
Read here curving like hip of mountain, sweet as lips
The fountain of history where the gospel drips
The triumvirate of pagans, the fawn led trek
The safe sundering tree, and God's wounded love dissect

I have felt the deep core yearning for her embrace
Have longed to feel the white moon suckle on my face
Have groaned through nights like deserts melting the wax pore
And you cannot stain my desire with stigmaed whore
It is not a fertility cult that I chase
But a command to bring forth he designed in place

Some doctrine new this shame to replenish the garden
And make countless the numbers on shores of heaven
This other gospel enthralled a pagan race, tempt
Their women abdicate role and place, none exempt
Now, the tarnishing is done, I come not nude then
Who call her first mother, and sister, wife and friend 

I bring no flowers for denial, since I drain
Dregs of human longing and sleep in webs of pain
Mother Mary too knew she bore her God to die
On her cross for sins she had since Eve had supply
Diminishless, O but not the pant and shudder
Not the ecstacy that feeds the mythic fodder

Astarte who grind day to crimson  terminus
And led light frazzled  the rebellion of dust
Unwombed no eggs, her virgins dry as furnaced stones
Kept all posterity in their shivering bones
To taste the pleasure and not the pain, not my will
For all who love cannot regret again the thrill

Let pagan kingdoms twist earth's history, I wait
The coming of the moon unwrapped from clouds, the late
Swelling of tides, and vigour of blood, proof of joy
For nothing else compensates our purpose and coy
Inheritance of the earth. Only in women's eyes
I find, some semblance of the promised, prized paradise
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