Of Unknown Origin

Of Unknown Origin

She did not spring forth from her father’s forehead,
fully-armed and itching for a fight.
She’s not that brave.

She wasn’t marble, carved then blessed
made flesh
on the flaming altar of a goddess.
She has never been this beautiful.

She did not rise from unknown depths, and sprout feet.
Or grow from dirt (or rib).
She’s never been very fond of mud,
(or being so derivative).

Most of all, she’s not a child
of the elements or otherwise
dependent on fate, good weather, or low tides.

She’s not even stardust.

So when you write about her,
to her,
first, look into her eyes.
And when you’re tempted -
oh, you will be tempted -
to mysticize,
remember
no secret sadness lingers there
no ancient desire hides.
Their wolfish amber doesn’t reveal her soul,
or reflect yours.
They are not seas or mirrors,
not eternity, or magic.
Just eyes.

And she’s been looking for you.

Of Unknown Origin