The tide without a father

a poem about venus, womanhood, women

Author’s note: Inspired by women, being a woman, womanhood. Golden beaches, warm weather, seasalt. And good sex.

She walks out of the water like Venus reborn,
memory of seafom trailing behind
and gold beneath her feet,
every edge of her traced with light.

Droplets pearl across her skin,
whispers of the Charites
adorning every curve,
imperfections kissed by salt-breeze
like Mars at her throat, breathless.

The sand holds up her step like a prophecy,
and seagulls dive to play with her hair —
mocking animals, don't you know your mistress? —
while seashells are begging to touch her soles,
recalling the hour she was born.

Worship.
The waves pause in reverence,
creation bows.
Men forget their gods,
and only know Her.

Desire without apology,
Desire without shame.
A thirsty flame in the body of ocean.
Juno's gaze softens into awe.

The sea speaks her name in thunder,
its pulse drawn to her gravity —
a fatherless tide, now,
carved not by Jupiter,
but by her will.

It is in a woman's breath
to hush the noise of a world not listening.
It is in a woman's gaze
to allow the sky to be the right shade of blue.

She bears no emblem
but the sting on her thigh, the salt in her mouth,
a body well-lived, a body well-fucked.
She gathers the murmurs of seahorses,
and creates mythology out of them.

And I know her skin like my own —
I have walked this shore before,
I know the wind that curves around her name.
Salt on my tongue and seabirds above,
every eye drawn
to the hymn I slowly became
through worship
through her.

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