Gods tell me
pinning my branches
to a bed of dead leaves,
and fucking the pyre
is a rite of passage.
Gods tell me
my body
does not belong
to me.
Gods tell me
my body
is theirs.
I am not good
at having a body.
I think, “Maybe
that is because
I am a god.”
And this explains
the mountains
I carry on my chest,
the history
tattooed in viscera
along my cavern walls,
the village
I could breathe
into existence,
given a year of lungs.
This angers gods
who tell me....
STOP TELLING ME
ABOUT MY BODY!
I am your god now.
27
Cauldron Anthology