Subtle curves and soft skin. The image of a goddess.
Is this it?
Or is it Imago Dei? BUT!
what is Imago Dei when Dei is
a Father,
a Son,
a Man...?
Which she is She?
Does she whisper from inside a box?
Or yell atop a soaped up one?
Or is she silent gaping back at birds atop her billboard?
Is she destined to the kitchen of Pygmalion and Paphos?
The box screams and tugs.
Does she stay strong?
Still heavenward we gaze.
The She of Me between the Thees is
not silent
nor still
nor subtle.
The only She of Me is mine.
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I've been thinking about poetry a lot lately, especially since I've recently been exchanging some bits of verse with a friend. This bit is a reworking of a previous entry here. Everchanging and everflowing as gender naturally is, it will probably change again.
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