Her gestation was long and dark within the incredible void of his organs. Violently she burst free from him. She tore wide his terrible skull, like an angry egg.
Was the sea wine-dark that day, I wonder?
Did she carry a labrys? Was there a serpent in her hands?
She was what he had swallowed, refined by long torment, a pearl of imperfect femininity. She brought war with her, but also wisdom, and weaving, and olives.
She entered the wretched world in a triumph of accidental justice. (She remained more twice-born, and much harder formed than Dionysus.)
I believe her only helm to be manumitance, the bleeding red of rebirth and liberty.
Her shield was nothing more than foresight.
Her hips were a round promise. Her cleaving falcata matched the line of her strong legs, the exquisite bow of her lips.
She slaughtered, wisely, but, alas, in vain. The weary world was not, is not, ready for her reign.
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