by Lynette Mejia
I may be the goddess of storms
(forgiveness), but I know
you don’t, starting with the price
of sunlight and calm winds, rocks
ground against bone, fresh water
distilled from endless tears.
Surely you know that rose-colored
glasses, happy endings and other
their very existence
to the darker things.
I didn’t ask for this responsibility. Only
know that I did the best I could, given
and a pregnant belly. I needed
security, a home fit for an unwed mother
married to the fickle sea, a place to raise
a child (this boy) under the roof of heaven.
It’s all a lie, anyway—
hands that twist the truth and wrap
around your throat.
They make you doubt
yourself, and that’s the worst part
Am I a woman? Did this
land ever really belong
Lynette Mejia writes science fiction fantasy, and horror prose and poetry from the middle of a deep, dark forest in the wilds of southern Louisiana. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, the Rhysling Award, and the Million Writers Award. You can find her online at www.lynettemejia.com .