Moss Softens My Shadow
Whatever made you think
That nymphs shave their legs?
That they felt ashamed by their textures,
That they were bothered by their womanhood,
That they didn’t wear their hair,
The way they wore fuzzy thistles on their brow,
And around their necks.
Whatever made you think
That mermaids sharpened shells
The shlep off the soft thin kelp
Beneath their arms?
That they would want to be as smooth
And innocent looking
As a little girl?
They aren't intimidated by extensions
Of their grace.
Whatever made you think
That a goddess would be annoyed
By the soft garden between her legs?
Morrigan must revel in it
A show of power
That she is a woman
Her legs a fertile plain.
She does not ignore her animosity
She wears it upon her thighs
It rages in her eyes.
Aphrodite knows that her beauty
As never been impeded
By a fruitful woman's body
She wouldn’t carve away
The lushness that rests atop her bones
Just as she would never wash away
The seafoam
From which she was born.
Freya understands
That with blood, and hair, and fertility
Comes wisdom
She does not regret her age
Or yearn for the nakedness of childhood
Her place is among the Valkyries,
Among the raw and the wild.
They are lusted after and admired,
They are holy and glowing,
They are blessed and flowing,
Even though they have legs like a doe.
I am an animal,
alongside any rabbit or elk.
I am soft and lush
I have earned this badge of womanhood
Alongside my siren eyes
And my nymphish eyes.
My aura is as bright as theirs.
Will the Sidhe Mounds Cave?
Do you love me still?
When my offerings have rotted
And I cannot dance for you anymore
Do you bless me still?
When my teeth are dull
And my blood won't spill
And my hymns are silent evermore
Do you watch me still?
When I am pallid and grey
When I look on you, vacant
My countenancy watery
Like a distant, ghostly shore
About the author: Chloe Jackson lives in Tulsa, Oklahoma where she attends high school, class of 2019. She began writing at around age nine and was first published in her school news paper. She is largely inspiratired by her personal adventures, world mythology and the Ozark forest in which she lives. Though she is now seventeen, she hopes to publish her own book of poetry as well as establish a career in forestry. Miss Jackson enjoys Yeats, bird watching, collecting rocks and home brewed coffee.
