Ashteroth
Gods, saviors, buddhas, kings
sat on the lap of My gnarled roots
and hung in their passion
in the branches of My many arms.
I was the Source of all power
from within, power-with.
It seemed innocent sacrifice
to allow My body,
flowing green with nourishment,
to be cut and used,
respectfully,
with sacred craft
and celebration:
to build the sacred marriage bed,
the throne, the temple.
But the first cut
of a blade into My flesh
was the beginning
of My crucifixion,
seeming unending.
Tree of Life, Staff of Life, healing Caduceus,
I became a dead cross of wood.
Lo! I Am clear-cut, dying,
dead to hope
these three long days!
(My scepter, staff, divining wand,
became night-stick, billy-club, a bully’s stick.)
My nourishing body, Host and Bread of Life,
is ground up as toxic waste,
mocking starvation and need.
Let the ground rise up in outrage!
Let My burning bush spark revolution.
Let the cataclysm
of My Resurrection begin!
Ashe.
© Tamara Rasmussen 2018