Idol

There lives a god within,
my own personal creation.
This is a god tranquil as a river trickle.
Cypress roots and limestone rocks 
along the river banks collect her.

This is a god as sinuous as wind
that glances along skin.
Bare arms, bare legs, bare skin,
wet with sweat,
welcome the parting curtains of heavy heat.

This is a god that burns alone in rage,
as sudden as the lightning’s strike
on dry prairie scalp,
overgrown, praying for a burn,
for the steam of scars,
the green survival that resurrects back.

There is a god inside, 
my history’s creation.
I wish I could atheist her away.
But she is there to stay.
I must restrain, I must care for her,
remind myself
that offerings to her are 
an offering to me and you.


—Emily Romano

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