Throughout times of doubt, I often think about Ishtar
An ideology that had preceded Western mythologies
She who was split in half to create Ares and Aphrodite
She who shaped the battle field as a canvas for intimacy
–
When I am taught about the fire she would lit in soldiers’ hearts
To move armies into the unknown with direction beating from their chests
I feel seen by eyes that precedent the birth of my generation
AsI try to describe how both wrath and passion
Create a fire burning within my ribs that cannot be tamed
–
I feel as if Ishtar is the only one who understands
That my hands draw swords for all that I write my poetry to
I feel as if Ishtar is the only one who understands
That my heart pumps the strength I need to fight beasts
I feel as if Ishtar is the only one who understands
That I am not rotten for biting the hand that feeds me,
For she is witness of the harm it had brought to me
–
The Western perspective portrays the instincts to fight and love
As inherited savagery from ancestry that must be long forgotten
It presents the dousing of the fire centered within my nature
As a duty required to fit into the narrow model of a civil woman
–
But Ishtar had taught me that my urge to fight for what I love, for who I love
Is no derangement from my femininity, but the definition of femininity itself