We Flock to the Dead Goddess
Hannah J. Shaw
We leave in the night while all the men sleep. They’ve known this was coming for
weeks, though no one could have predicted the day, not even us. The men can sense it
coming by the way we hum while folding laundry, or the way we so casually suggest
opening a second bottle of red wine with dinner. Two glasses, why not? Their
knowledge shines through as they watch us at the dinner table, hungry-eyed, like
scavengers. We exchange no words about it. If they ask, we won’t tell. We are moments
away from leaving and there is nothing they can do to make us stay.
We’ll be back. Eventually.
We leave that night, a few hours after having tucked our sons, our husbands,
ourselves into bed. We come in our finest night clothes. Linen nightgowns, satin
chemises, cotton waffle robes, and sheer baby-doll pajamas. We want to look our best
for the dead goddess.
We bring with us the best we have to offer. Igloo coolers full of homemade fig
jam, wine fermented with blueberries from our basements, shortbread cookies spiced
with cinnamon and cloves and decorated to look like cobras. Angelique brings with her
a prized russet hog. We all envy Angelique. We all wish that our offerings could be as
worthy.
The younger ones offer up more than they can bear to part with. I’ll give her my
eyes! Then I’ll give her my lips! The dead goddess has no use for lips, though we all
clamor to give her only the best. We hike up hills, through forests, past strip malls, and
over rocky shores. We don’t know where we are going but we follow the starlings where
they fly.
We know her when we see her. Behold the dead goddess. Her hair is limp and
wild. Her eyes are clouded and white, she meets us like a wild thing, ready to claw a hole
in the fabric of this world and lead us through it. She is both horrifying and beautiful.
We are entranced by her, by the wildflowers that grow up from the crown of her head,