my goddess is a poet.

my goddess doesn't have curves.
she's fat in all the ways
a magazine can't photoshop
into beautiful--
you can't airbrush the 
wrinkles from the sides
of her mouth from 
laughing at everyone who 
ever tried to pray to her--
her skin is the uneven 
texture of the moon.
she breaks mirrors in the morning
because there's no 
refraction of light that could
contain her.
Her face turned
the morning doves to stone--
fell from the branches
like lumps of coal
or hail--
my goddess has hip bones and
a blooming muffin top-- 
jeans pulled 
tight around her waist from 
a fist of powdered doughnut--
my goddess skips breakfast sometimes--
pulls herself free from
the gullet of a coffee mug--
fucks in the back seat of
her mother's mini van
to watch the windows fog--
doesn't want to remember his name--
paints bruises on
her thighs from
times she dropped herself
like an apple--
eats McIntosh with the snakes--
my goddess is in therapy--
she's anorexic
bi-polar
schizophrenic 
and
most days she tastes depression
in the wrapper of a pop tart--
she kisses girls
and thinks they taste like
peppermint lip balm--
she sleep in the roof in the summer--
my goddess
took a pregnancy test in
a port-a-potty and dropped the
stick between her legs
in relief--
she's infertile
and out of sync with the moon--
my goddess never wanted to be
a mother--
my goddess carves blank
paper and the smooth
glide of a pen--
she's a poet and when she's
starved herself of everything
else she can still take a fork
and eat through the core of a sonnet--
swallow each syllable
and chew punctuation free
from every stanza--
my goddess ran out of quarters
at the laundry mat--
wore her dress wet and wild
to diner--
ordered coconut cream pie and
had lunch with herself 
alone--
my goddess is not looking
for a god--
she's looking for a 
gas station to stop and
buy a bag of peach rings--
she's looking for her brother
to tell him how much 
she wants to play cards with him--
i love a goddess who
knows the waiting room--
the crinkle of the wax
paper at the doctor's office--
the feeling of blood drawn from
arm veins--
i love a goddess who kisses
the knobs of my wrists--
breaks powdered doughnut
like body--like host
like heavenly mondays--
my goddess never had a name--
it was swallowed by the moon
a long time ago--
but i can tell you her lips
taste like peppermint 
and she loves
loves loves
to write.