There is a rule that I must follow, in order to kneel and pray

when the days turn gray. I am made from holy deities,

though separate. My Holy Father who feels the words in my

hands before I say them. Confessor. Father. As a woman I have

a need; (a need for seed) but sin sacrifices me. Little girl with her

baby doll can't make love to make a baby until they put a circle around her.

Gold on her fingertips to sharpen her wit. Tighten her worth on the world.

She dreams of children (yours and mine.) She dreams of the names

that she will give them. Wise. Whimsical names of which she will stamp them

with. My flesh is made from fire and starlight by the thin stretches of my fathers

bony hands. I would make love to his fruitful mouth if he asked me to. I would

lay myself down to be silent if he wished it. I call him father but I am not

of his blood; his bone; or his bread, daily taken for his surrender on the world. A

sacrifice that (my kind) and me have born for centuries. I am a woman, womb filled

though empty. I am wise. I am wild. I am of him, though in my veins flows

the blood of human kind (but I am still separate from him.) There is rule that I follow;

knowledge that I swallow deep in the night when I can't sleep and call out to my father.

Heavenly Sire whose kiss erases my sin. Call me forfeit. Call me wrongdoing.

For it was woman who created lust (women forced to kiss with rust on their lips.)

Call me dust on your eyelashes. Call me daughter and I will be silent.

Call me child, my father.

I am unashamed of the flesh that masks my blood- if it weren't for women their would be no Christ. It is my sin to believe that wombs are holy (holier then the iron fist of a mans penis as it strikes to rule the world.) It is my sin to believe that I am just as good as any God; if not better that I may breed a new one.