God, the father, wore me out
With wrath and beatings, kisses from a weathered mouth, mixed signals from a monster head. It got to where it was him or me. I got his gun and plotted against the Pantokrătōr. I told myself it would be good if I killed him. He wouldn’t have to watch me, see me raped by a brother who was drunk all the time, like Bacchus, lecherous; or Cain, leaving me for dead, but never completing the murder. The tribe, ripping hyenas, lioness defending, tore into me.
But for my Goddess mother, I’d not be here. Her pantheon was a clan of miraculous love and sunlight: Frank of the Stigmata, Mary and her Weird Pregnancy, Mojave John, Handyman Jesus. Even the crimes of the priests never made her hate. That’s a tale without an end. Sweet as cough syrup, she made friends of natives at hunting feasts where the elders picked at deer-head meat.
Six hearts and a soul I lost along the way
I don’t mind that
It hurt like hell cannot.
Life is no walk of regret. Heaven is a place to forget.