In homage to Camille Paglia's

Sex, Art and American Culture

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The church where the widows in black

used to pray to the Virgin Mother

was demolished to make way for the new casino.

Maybe the bulldozers and hydraulic shovels,

those lumbering deconstruction machines,

scratched their claws too deep into the bedrock.

Maybe something buried there

was accidentally found again

where still breathes the old wound.

She struggles to one knee

Goddess with a thousand faces

trying to yank herself free of the chains

still binding her to ancient pillars

buried below the church.

What manner of woman is She?

Phantasm? Titan?

Pre-feminist woman?

Who is She?

A wave of panic ripples

through the gathering crowd

as She rises from the rubble, 

wipes two thousand years of sleep

from her eyes and stands 

to her full height, scantily clad 

in leopard print, in 50 ft 

technicolor splendour.

Townswomen, who moments earlier 

hurled stones and slut-shaming insults,

now recoil in horror.

Eyes fly open, hands fan out,

a multitude of quasi-orgasmic screams

ring out in a psychodrama fit

for Hollywood. The chains snap;

citizens scatter in all directions.

The city, the heart of sex, art 

and culture, is under attack.

Who is this harlot,

this Jezebel?

Sex object?

Savage?

Slave?

Other woman?

Who is She?

Only the bravest men rush forth:

defenders of the status quo,

self-appointed protectors of the ladies;

a sheriff with a shotgun,

a tired suit with a hand gun.

They take aim and fire

to no effect, while trying to hide 

their unruly res-erections.

Who is She, this Lilith,

this whore of Babylon?

Sacred prostitute?

High-priestess?

Man-eater?

Who is she?

Perhaps time for speculation

has come and passed,

and She is already risen

from the sacrificial

blood and ashes

of the Holy Inquisition.

Look at her now, 

how She straddles the highway

with her killer curves,

her cinematic, sultry

rock n'roll sneer;

the beauty in the beast-

how She picks up a car in one hand

and threatens to launch it

in self-defense, her

maternal endowments

jostling dangerously

in her bikini top high above.

From whence derives

this feminine power,

elusive yet so dominant?

One power among the many;

one mere mask among the many.

Who is She?

Sky Woman?

Inanna?

Amaterasu?

Kali?

Who is She?

Warrior?

Teacher?

Sorceress?

Weaver of fates

and all things living?

Certainly not 'Inferior man'

as some would have her.

She doesn't know it yet,

but She's learning to remember

and no pretense can ever wholly 

seal the cracks in the illusion,

the broken foundations,

the god-fearing and the faithful

sought to rebuild

out of mud and bones

and temple stones.

She's free at last,

and She's not going back.

Not even the stone cold sanctuary 

of the Virgin Mary's lips, 

can keep a secret forever.