by Michelle Yost

"I’d rather be a cyborg than a goddess."
— Donna Haraway

but if I was, I'd want to be
the cowgirl Aphrodite

or the cerebral Athena,
hard as Helvetica —
owner of the pillared mind.
Sharp logic my ecstasy,
high heeled boots
snapping in the temple

or the cool desert goddess of knowing
what to leave behind, the wrappers
of fish scales — the queen of leftovers,

of short women with 6 ft. souls,
all the jazz club brimstone, coals.

The singular — no, plural goddess,
of colts running ragged, desire,
insect casings. Goddess of dissection,

the metal trappings the dress
laid on before it was ever
leavened with lust
in prickling jest, in wedding
the blacksmith's wrath.

Of course I would sort out
what's wrong with the footnotes,
the science.

I would explain away longing.

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