Dear Father;
I could live without my gender
being the reason for two thousand years
of fiery temptresses and thirsty crusaders.

Who spreads that rumor
Only to leave us to watch the world unravel?
Watch the demagogues fall and the underfoot rise
like stalactites and mites in an ancient cavern.
Who would find us again, two thousand years from now—
fumbling for the key to existence—
preacher man in a new suit, or a dieting Buddha, or a well-fed Christ?
Who would spread the word, our myths?
Who would start the new religion?

It’s amazing, that we can walk upright; what with
this weight balanced on our heads.