Bull and Dove

.

Once a month, she must worship,

Retreating to Astarte’s temple,

A place I cannot go,

Present an unformed, unsanctified offering,

Matriarchal sacrifice of primal origin,

Scarlet devotional to the uncertain

Continuation of the species.

.

Refusing to weep at anointed feet,

A mystical virgin, appointed queen

By those demanding clean, subservient order,

Told to beg forgiveness for being

Born “woman” possessed, she suffers

Sometimes more, sometimes less,

Enduring nonetheless in eternal pagan silence.

.

Exalted, pantheistic blood rite more ancient,

Renewing, private, revealing, than any

Spurious manmade universal truth,

Will not accept any holy veneer

That tries to mask its basic humanity,

Or sanitary excuses denying its existence,

Or misguided jokes, or dirty complaints.

.

Though it is not forbidden to me to know when, how,

I cannot go to this place,

This duty was not entrusted to my kind.

I can never be initiated into its mysteries,

Participate in its sacred, womb-focusing pain.

I am fragile acolyte, too simple to understand.

I am just rampant bull; she is her atoning dove.