Before my mother died, a visit from Athena─
“For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror”
There are moments: A veil is lifted and we see
through eyes of the immutable: Call it fate
or play it safe, imagine it was a waking dream;
then you evade believing in this terrible awe . . .
But inside that dream you wake, and change
is here; you saw Her face and knew Her power.
Now all the names used to describe this power
are tamed. It is a Lamb of God we see,
not the God of Abraham whose sword of change
spared Isaac, who sent the Ram of Fate
to die in Isaac’s stead. Abraham shook with awe
and Isaac lived. The iron sky was no dream.
The Ram bowed in obedience to the dream
in Abraham, that from his seed a nation’s power
would grow. And when that faith made way for awe
another question grew. Was Isaac the first to see
God’s mercy stay a father’s hand, or had fate
denied lay in wait for the Lamb? Beyond change
and bargaining prayers, nothing could change
death that was sealed in that sacrificial dream;
no deed or love availed to bend that Son’s fate . . .
They watched Him dragged and nailed to power
as Isaac might have died; that Son would see
the face hidden from Isaac and enter into awe.
The one I called She was a herald to awe.
I saw the wings of her helmet and the change
in her eyes from blue to imperious gray and did see
what she revealed. I saw the future in my dream;
a mercy then. Death came with indifferent power
and took one I loved. Events moved on with fate
seen as murals for the passing of a queen, her fate
prepared by those who rule the realm of awe
where fear and love share transcendent power . . .
And we wait as children for days that will change
our daily lives by the prescience of a dream . . .
Where rams with golden horns die so we may see
a change in those who turn blind suffering to fate . . .
The gods who dream our lives give the gift of awe
that we may see with hope, and dare to live with power.
Properly, it should be
- repay all the
It should have no
at the very start
be already in
and no end.
Its theme should be accessible.
Whether it should have Time
is a question;
and Death, its companion,
so often betray
Properly, it should
- clear; like all the
bells ever cast,
“Aliens exist,” that’s what you told me;
By the gnarled oak tree where we used to meet,
Careful and discreet, for our nightly tryst.
“Don’t believe the lies they tell us,” you said,
Enraged, as you spread your arms in the air,
Fingers aimed up there, pointing to the skies.
Gently I soothed you, wiped away your tears,
Held you, calmed your fears, swore you would be fine;
If you would be mine, I would see you through.
Joyful by your side, I reached for your hand,
Knelt down as I’d planned, fumbled with the ring;
Love was everything, I thought in my pride.
Morning, noon, and night we were together.
No lovers ever held their love as dear,
Or held it so near, for we held it tight.
Perhaps too much so, for you were afraid;
Queer talk of a raid, ships set to deploy,
Ready to “destroy everything we know.”
So you insisted right up to your death;
Till with dying breath, you made your wish known:
“Upon the headstone, write ‘She Resisted.’”
Very soon, all lips bore a single strain;
Whispers of “Insane,” “Nut job,” “Dementia,
“Xenophobia.” Then we saw the ships.
You were right, you see. An army from space.
Zappers leave no trace of those who resist.
Aliens exist. That’s what you told me.