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