poem25 Oct 2020 04:23 pm
The Queen of Heaven’s Children
Deborah L. Davitt
You tore down our mother’s temples, fearing that to give glory to her, the Queen of Heaven, she who treads the sea, Asherah, would take glory from him who was her husband, who divided his land from her sea, Elkunirsa—more lately El (which means Lord to those who remember their Hittite—most don’t, these days).  You preferred to wander the desert far from her shores; you forgot her forgiveness, tenderness, when faced with his wrath.  We forgot nothing on her shores, transformed to guardian pillars licked with her salt;  you abandoned our mother, your mother, so we came for your daughters with all the tenderness you’d forgotten, taught them to find their wings within.  You called yourselves blessed when you saw the grandchildren, so strong, intelligent, and noble, but as we slumbered, stone once more, you forgot, and they forgot.  We never forget.  Awakening inside our descendants, daughters of men and gods, we wonder why you fear us so— is it for the divine grace burning under our skins? Is it for the wings of flame you cannot see, but surely sense?  This time, we won’t let you forget, searing our mother’s name into your souls with a brand of molten salt.
