And if you see Godzilla’s entrails dragged for miles until it blends with the ocean,
just know she doesn’t dwell. He wasn’t serving her. Let her cry
in the lake she uses as a mirror. Let her cry until she’s empty and all that’s left
is the dust that puffs off her back as she trembles. It’ll enter Earth’s atmosphere,
blocking the sun for a few days. She’ll use this time to reconnect with her sisters.
They’ll plan a trip to paradise for a spring break. She’s not crying anymore.
She listens to Knuck if You Buck and fight anthems. She burns his hoodie
in a nuclear reactor. She’s finally working on that screenplay. Let her laugh at past daydreams
of sharing a quaint bungalow at the base of Mt. Fuji,
nestled as a subordinate fire in his belly.
Let her feast on her wounds. She’s forgotten how to eat. Let her scoop up all the sugar water
with a hungry tongue. Let her grieve. Her divinity wasn’t needed for her girls to unfurl
her like a flytrap, revealing her cashmere softness.
They’re entranced in her eyes and she hears them think:
you deserve so much more than what you convinced yourself was enough.
