The Amputees

When my home became a city of ruined temples,
I portmanteaued my life and waited
for the harbinger to arrive at my door. Around me,
in a language meant only for posterity, I left records
of the gods who fled, the gods who returned
the day after the apocalypse, alone or in pairs, to
pick their ears and noses from the wreck,
their severed limbs a blasphemy of beauty.
Their eyes were stone, their countenances terrible.

I am the woman who walked this land
long after
her broken gods
had departed it, their shadows receding
among the remains of their dominion.

When the harbinger came for me,
I went without prayer.
In my belongings
I carried as much as I could – a palm in
the gesture of blessing, the adorned swell of a breast,
the half-closed eyes of one who sees all,
salvaged none.

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