Photo by @gingermias on Unsplash

‘He called me Uttu’

I didn’t like the gossamer of his parlour
And not the fine silks he wrapped me in, not anymore,
Rotten, the seeds he’d plant for me in the forest
and untouched his gifts from before,
When I – crawling – snarled, he’d breathe ‘I am the only snarler’, when he came ‘it was ardor’.
I’d wondered if it was Anansi or Unktomi or Loki or Enki
Or Zeus…

But it didn’t matter, not with a mind intoxicated or muscles shaking from overuse
Twitching, ‘neath spinned destiny
Tearing at my own seams
As I felt fire in my veins
Felt no freedom as again formidable death came
in the form of man, god, creature – their schemes
Taking me in gauzy chains
And what good did it matter, for me,     as I took the many ropes, ‘plenty of rope’, a dead dame.

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