Eagle dream

My sisters, the birds, ye are greatly beholden to God for the element of the air.

St. Francis of Assisi

Come. Take me. Use me. I’m as ready as…
readier than that. I can be food for eagles,
me and my story of women bound by life,
confined to quarters, constricted by barriers
for featherless bipeds who bear children.
Without my eagle dream I’m no woman at all.
I decay. I die. And the dream is ravenous.
Eagles need flesh to eat, and mine is as good as…
better than flesh held back and a starving dream.

What begets this dreaming? Having no story?
The coming to nothing of my woman’s journey?
The recurrence of, “God made you in His image?”
In whose image? Take me. Use me. Eat me.
Grind me. Don’t be squeamish. To chew me
is to think me. Thoroughly. All the way through.
I am not the residue of a failed creation,
but an expanding female gynergy
set on union with the Verb of Verbs.