My Asherah, I made a shrine for you in the old fire pit under the tree
but I did not leave you. I wasn’t sure how you would weather
and the red ants were unwilling to share their lawn. I placed flowers
in clam shells, took swift photographs. Snap. Snap. Snap. Asherah
you stand-in for deity, you looked stunning. Later I returned you
to your altar laid with a violet cloth, candles, red hibiscus,
the Three of Wands and The Lovers, a string of tiny shells,
a silver chalice with a smoky quartz wand in place of the god.
Your nose was chipped and grey against your black fired
Ganges clay and resin face. I still love you I said. You are still
the woman you were this morning. Perhaps in time we won’t see this
as disfigurement. Four days, and now I sing you
a Michael Jackson hit. Here, I have a fine-tipped Vivid.
I can restore your beauty, Queen of Heaven. It will be our secret.
Sandi Sartorelli
