He was the sort of man <br />who wouldn't hurt a fly. <br />Many flies are now alive <br />while he is not. <br />He was not my patron. <br />He preferred full granaries, I battle. <br />My roar meant slaughter. <br />Yet here we are together <br />in the same museum. <br />That's not what I see, though, the fitful <br />crowds of staring children <br />learning the lesson of multi- <br />cultural obliteration, sic transit <br />and so on. <br /> <br />I see the temple where I was born <br />or built, where I held power. <br />I see the desert beyond, <br />where the hot conical tombs, that look <br />from a distance, frankly, like dunces' hats, <br />hide my jokes: the dried-out flesh <br />and bones, the wooden boats <br />in which the dead sail endlessly <br />in no direction. <br /> <br />What did you expect from gods <br />with animal heads? <br />Though come to think of it <br />the ones made later, who were fully human <br />were not such good news either. <br />Favour me and give me riches, <br />destroy my enemies. <br />That seems to be the gist. <br />Oh yes: And save me from death. <br />In return we're given blood <br />and bread, flowers and prayer, <br />and lip service. <br /> <br />Maybe there's something in all of this <br />I missed. But if it's selfless <br />love you're looking for, <br />you've got the wrong goddess. <br /> <br />I just sit where I'm put, composed <br />of stone and wishful thinking: <br />that the deity who kills for pleasure <br />will also heal, <br />that in the midst of your nightmare, <br />the final one, a kind lion <br />will come with bandages in her mouth <br />and the soft body of a woman, <br />and lick you clean of fever, <br />and pick your soul up gently by the nape of the neck <br />and caress you into darkness and paradise.<br /><br />Margaret Atwood<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sekhmet-the-lion-headed-goddess-of-war/
