In the beginning Lilith fell, for refusing to start already fallen.
Then there was Eve who took the fall for Eden,
And Adam who fell for Eve.
Now Cloacina has fallen, too,
First from the marriage bed,
the sacred waters of her veins,
shot up with sewage,
the holy canals transformed to flowing ribbons of waste.
Yet her function, devotees realized,
though less romantic than her old forte,
was vital to life, health, and indeed,
the glistening of stars in lover’s eyes.
Doubtless though, at all conventions on Mt. Olympus,
some snooty Goddess would say with a snicker,
“There she goes- the Goddess of Shit.”
Cloacina has fallen under Venus.
Who began with assimilating her image,
making her a detail and not the detailed,
so the world might notice less as she eroded away,
digested, processed and neatly removed.
Venus remains the essence of love, romanticized, and renowned.
Cloacina, scarcely remembered,
finally rises weakly in the background,
in the undying shadow of the Goddess of Love,
herself eternally the Goddess of shit to those who bless her with the knowledge of her name,
embalmed of reverence to all that she has been.
Great Medusa of the waves has fallen, as well,
First under Poseidon whose clear waters could not cleanse him of his sins,
Then under haughty Aphrodite,
who got her panties in a wad over Medusa’s phantom slight.
Medusa whose beauty had been sole consolation for the mortality that out of three sisters
plagued only she,
But under the cruel hand of Love’s Goddess it all fell away,
her soft hair turned to heavy snakes,
and her former beauty out-rivaled by the now unbearable blight of her countenance,
But the punishment was not in the decaying of her aesthetic grace,
but in the constraints of insurmountable loneliness,
Unapproachable, she became unlovable.
Like a hunter who prides themselves on the trophy heads of innocent beasts,
Vain Aphrodite was not satisfied with falls 1 through 3,
Thus Medusa fell again,
Under the mirror of Aphrodite, reflection of Venus,
Her petrified head paraded as proof of some imagined greatness,
And now she has fallen from Goddess to Monster, Beauty to Beast.
Though her name may evoke electrical storms of imagined recognition,
those who know her name,
Falsely believe they know her true face.
I met him in the Fall before the fall.
I never told him before it was too late,
that he smelled like home,
and like Eden before the advent of snakes.
He said he had fallen,
then repeated it with me,
And now I have fallen under him,
A natural transition, that whispers of heresy.
He was my pericardium, now dropped away,
pulled as surely off as a caul brushed from a newborn’s face.
But as Cloacina remains in the shadow of Venus,
I remain under his shadow.
He has become my phantom limb.
My arms feel awkward and unnatural without him to wrap around,
As if he were always some integral part of them.
My body aches with the need to feel whole.
My soul seeks him in guidance.
He has risen over me like Athena,
The shadow of love,
And the face of an untouchable God.