what a strange modern creature
she is
wholly without ambition
this is not to say,
without competition
or without any temptation to unfollow her path

she became so perplexingly contented,
in her own self, so grounded in herself, nearly buried

that she simply forgot she was actually vulnerable, alive and living

there were times — few, when others,
almost always men, offered or lured
her with a temporary or false loft, telling her things about herself she already knew

validation is one helluva drug

and she had emanated a buoyancy, a life raft for lost souls, for arrested seekers /
this was a maiden’s heel in her, that she despised //
she, latching onto their empty breast, for some external re-nourishment
but they were hollowed out and filled in with ego, lies or greed

wholly devoid of the rich blood of life,
their milk — bland, defective or impotent

while allowing their needy suckle to drain and diminish her life force ////

so, if she wants to float, after all,

and if it’s not
in the first waters
she catalyzed with and within
her mother,
then it must be
in the waters
of the second Mother
where the only risk is drowning
with dignity in her birthplace

not floating on unreliable, stale air
not crashing or burning
onto the filthy pavement of men, hot or cold,
splayed out
and bleeding
crying like

a bitxh out of water

let her die bloated, full of holy water, washing up on the stony shore for bears, on the sandy beach for gulls, or the grassy bank for coyotes,

to devour.

now, that’s success.