Shamhat

I would have journeyed to him unbidden,
my path from the temple fated and traced
by sandaled feet, dusty but eager
in their purpose, the way we find our gods.

What lives in him would spark
the fuse that drives and draws me
beside the spring where he comes to drink,
where I will lie down, naked and spread under sun
for the man who runs with deer.  

I have an appetite for gods
or the man ridden by them, still smelling
of the clay that shaped him, struck with light;
a man with hair longer than my own,
whose kisses taste like wild grass.

I am the one who opens and is taken
but when he stands again and turns
back to the deer, they no longer know him.
Like Delilah, I…