he was the sort of man who wouldn't hurt a fly  he was not my patron he preferred full granaries my roar meant slaughter yet here we are together in the same museum  i see the temple where i was born or built where I held power i see the desert beyond where the hot conical tombs hide my jokes the dried-out flesh and bones the wooden boats in which the dead sail endlessly in no direction what did you expect from gods
with animal heads

we're given blood and bread, flowers and prayer and lip service if it's selfless love you're looking for you've got the wrong goddess i just sit where I'm put  composed of stone and wishful thinking that the deity who kills for pleasure will also heal that in the midst of your nightmare the final one a kind lion will come with bandages in her mouth and the soft body of a woman and lick you clean of fever and pick your soul up gently by the nape of the neck and caress you into darkness and paradise

                                            margaret