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