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 

possessions owe

their very existence 

to the darker things.

I didn’t ask for this responsibility. Only

know that I did the best I could, given

the circumstances 


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

isn’t it? 

     Am I a woman? Did this 

land ever really belong

to me?

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