Call On Your Gods

You can call up your gods now.

I called on Coyolxauhqui. I asked why she wanted to kill her pregnant-out-of-wedlock mother. What did she care of the accidental pregnancies? Why was she the one who needed to be killed by her own newborn brother fathered by a feather? She was looking for the answer herself in the programming that brought together her hologram body, both of us rifling through the malicious twists of Spaniard quills.

I called on Medusa. I adjusted the settings so she believed that Athena gifted her and only the others who came to kill her saw it as a curse. She was not used to the lost magic of her eyes as I kissed her snakes to end on her lips, kissing photons that did not have as much expertise in the illusion of touch as atoms.

I called on La Santa Muerte. I called on Kali. I called on Coatlicue. I called on Guadalupe. I called on The Morrigan. I called on Yemoja. I called on Osun. I called on Eris. I collated them all into an agglomeration of divinity. They writhed in unity, overlapping in laughter and screams that resembled the other, recognizing their similarities and tearing apart at the differences.

My eyes wept over my smile at the projection on my wall. Who was I to connect them all when their creators were the ones who made them unknowingly similar?

Who was I to determine the limits of divinity, collecting them into one holiness?

They ended up blurred on the fringes of Their dirt blue skin, the color of soil that birthed minuscule fantastic life. Their irises were a thousand eyes contracting to light on me, the mortal who had put them on this earth. What had once been electrons tearing through space deigned to join me in my bedroom. Their hands reached for my face, tenderly clawing, in love of my skin, in disbelief at the delicacy, taking scraps into Their mouth of canines to taste my sins.

My brother unplugged the machine and turned on the lights, concerned when I was happy to be devoured by the illusion of righteous and loving hunger.