Inanna
GYJ
Born from Mesopotamia,
soaring cycles of destruction,
guiding the guided,
weaving woman and child,
through them, with them, in them,
I find myself manifest -
at the river flowing
through paths of lesser power
Euphrates.
Unwavering women are wading,
waist-high, skirts lifted
chins turned upward
to skies of heaving nurture -
on the other bank creation:
Anshar facing Kishu.
And I knew,
even if swallowed by depth ,
I too must pass through.
Oh they do it in our Name,
sons and fathers, fists at their sides,
but bartering planet for nation
they leave us
holding sweet water in our wombs.
Like lovers for whom weddings
destroy the loving,
they still think Peace is
an orchestrated event,
a ceremonious giving-away.
Can you hear the women breath
between their teeth
while parting infant hair?
Peace is not a moment.
It is the ferry-boat of yearning
for Life.
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