Gaze
I’m still a virgin,
even after all this time.
There are so many people
who would have died for my touch
and yet I had not a single one.
I kept myself to myself,
myself for myself.
I’m not like my sister, you see.
Touches and glances are what she lives on;
they are her currency and her power.
She withers if she doesn’t come once a day,
and will actually tear off her own skin
if not given the attention she craves.
(It’s happened before.)
I work best unseen and unheard,
the only scent on my skin my own.
And then it fucking happened again.
This time, there were no shady trees,
no rushing waters, and no little grove.
I wasn’t washing my hair in the moonlight.
I was waiting for the 392 from Hammersmith.
(While it may seem odd for a nature goddess
to roam the busiest city on earth,
remember that I am also patron of hunting and shadows,
and there is no better place for that than a stinking city.)
This man looked so long and hard at me
that I was uncomfortable.
Me, a goddess, uncomfortable!
I got on the bus and sat at the back.
He got on too and sat opposite me.
Those eyes!
I have seen eyes like that in a mortal only once.
They were eyes that poked and prodded,
eyes that lifted hems and pulled necklines,
eyes that drew a trail over the thigh,
and did not listen when you said no.
I could feel my power ebbing away,
the ichor in my veins reddening.
It was hard to keep myself together under this man’s gaze.
That’s the thing about the sacred, you see.
Taboos aren’t for respect, they’re protection.
The profane is merely the examined,
and all things sacred are profane
once looked at too closely.
I got off the bus and headed for the park.
He followed, as I knew he would.
We walked further and further into the woods,
and I grew stronger with each step.
When I said I was good with cities,
I was lying. Only a little.
Cities are good for cheap tricks and filthy words,
for shadows, shows and sneaking around.
When you need power, real power, only the old places will do.
Some of the trees here were born even before me,
and will still be shedding leaves when I fade away.
We came to the lake and I stepped into it,
feeling a jolt of pure pleasure at the return of strength.
I asked him whether he would lower his gaze.
He shook his head no, and I changed him.
Or rather, I tried.
For there he stood, man as ever,
with two legs, two arms
and not a single fucking antler.
I asked him again, and got the same reply.
I tried to change him again and still nothing happened.
And then that stupid quote about history, tragedy and farce
popped into my head, and the water boiled with my fury.
I took off my leather jacket and kicked off my boots,
I undid my shirt and rolled down my jeans.
I stood bare as a babe before him,
his insolent gaze burning my skin.
Lower your gaze, I commanded.
NO, he shouted.
Very well, I said. On your head be it.
The sky darkened, the birds flew away,
the earth rumbled. All that jazz.
His skin got hairier, his bones cracked
and his voice went from the hoarse yell of a man
to the bone-chilling cry of a deer.
He tottered to me on his Bambi legs,
head bowed and antlers to the floor.
Prostrate on the ground and trembling,
he had finally stopped looking at me.
I stepped out of the lake and smiled.
The sacred has a few tricks up its sleeve, you know.
I left the trappings of the city in the water
and let the forest clothe me.
I walked by bus stops and building sites,
laying slow traps for the catcaller, the harasser, the hooter.
Cut brakes here, a snipped artery there,
sometimes the complete loss of voice.
All women who walked the streets -
Artemis or Aphrodite,
Ishtar or Ifri,
chaperoned or alone - were shielded.
It was good.
Better than good, great.
I and all those who walked my path,
whether they knew it or not, were safe.
You can still see him sometimes,
if you’re very patient and very quiet
and have a high tolerance for early mornings.
He stumbles where the others gambol,
wanders alone and away from the herd.
He doesn’t know where the greenest grass is,
he doesn’t know where the sweetest water is.
I like to watch him.
He tries to look back, but he can’t.
Not for long.
Not as much fun to be on the other side, is it?
even after all this time.
There are so many people
who would have died for my touch
and yet I had not a single one.
I kept myself to myself,
myself for myself.
I’m not like my sister, you see.
Touches and glances are what she lives on;
they are her currency and her power.
She withers if she doesn’t come once a day,
and will actually tear off her own skin
if not given the attention she craves.
(It’s happened before.)
I work best unseen and unheard,
the only scent on my skin my own.
And then it fucking happened again.
This time, there were no shady trees,
no rushing waters, and no little grove.
I wasn’t washing my hair in the moonlight.
I was waiting for the 392 from Hammersmith.
(While it may seem odd for a nature goddess
to roam the busiest city on earth,
remember that I am also patron of hunting and shadows,
and there is no better place for that than a stinking city.)
This man looked so long and hard at me
that I was uncomfortable.
Me, a goddess, uncomfortable!
I got on the bus and sat at the back.
He got on too and sat opposite me.
Those eyes!
I have seen eyes like that in a mortal only once.
They were eyes that poked and prodded,
eyes that lifted hems and pulled necklines,
eyes that drew a trail over the thigh,
and did not listen when you said no.
I could feel my power ebbing away,
the ichor in my veins reddening.
It was hard to keep myself together under this man’s gaze.
That’s the thing about the sacred, you see.
Taboos aren’t for respect, they’re protection.
The profane is merely the examined,
and all things sacred are profane
once looked at too closely.
I got off the bus and headed for the park.
He followed, as I knew he would.
We walked further and further into the woods,
and I grew stronger with each step.
When I said I was good with cities,
I was lying. Only a little.
Cities are good for cheap tricks and filthy words,
for shadows, shows and sneaking around.
When you need power, real power, only the old places will do.
Some of the trees here were born even before me,
and will still be shedding leaves when I fade away.
We came to the lake and I stepped into it,
feeling a jolt of pure pleasure at the return of strength.
I asked him whether he would lower his gaze.
He shook his head no, and I changed him.
Or rather, I tried.
For there he stood, man as ever,
with two legs, two arms
and not a single fucking antler.
I asked him again, and got the same reply.
I tried to change him again and still nothing happened.
And then that stupid quote about history, tragedy and farce
popped into my head, and the water boiled with my fury.
I took off my leather jacket and kicked off my boots,
I undid my shirt and rolled down my jeans.
I stood bare as a babe before him,
his insolent gaze burning my skin.
Lower your gaze, I commanded.
NO, he shouted.
Very well, I said. On your head be it.
The sky darkened, the birds flew away,
the earth rumbled. All that jazz.
His skin got hairier, his bones cracked
and his voice went from the hoarse yell of a man
to the bone-chilling cry of a deer.
He tottered to me on his Bambi legs,
head bowed and antlers to the floor.
Prostrate on the ground and trembling,
he had finally stopped looking at me.
I stepped out of the lake and smiled.
The sacred has a few tricks up its sleeve, you know.
I left the trappings of the city in the water
and let the forest clothe me.
I walked by bus stops and building sites,
laying slow traps for the catcaller, the harasser, the hooter.
Cut brakes here, a snipped artery there,
sometimes the complete loss of voice.
All women who walked the streets -
Artemis or Aphrodite,
Ishtar or Ifri,
chaperoned or alone - were shielded.
It was good.
Better than good, great.
I and all those who walked my path,
whether they knew it or not, were safe.
You can still see him sometimes,
if you’re very patient and very quiet
and have a high tolerance for early mornings.
He stumbles where the others gambol,
wanders alone and away from the herd.
He doesn’t know where the greenest grass is,
he doesn’t know where the sweetest water is.
I like to watch him.
He tries to look back, but he can’t.
Not for long.
Not as much fun to be on the other side, is it?