Kay Cotton
The Goddess
Kay Cotton reading The Goddess 
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The Goddess
We found her at the tip
in Portland, where the quarries’
inverted stone cathedrals
harbour gilded frogs poised
on the edge of spring waters
like fingernails against a teacup,
used to tell fortunes.
She has no head, no arms, no legs;
is a corpus with a feminist twist.
Nothing androgynous about her.
She has lived in a lime tree for the past
three years, guarding the gateway
to the vegetable garden.
The moon lights her up, fills her skin.
We plan to paint her with yoghurt,
watch her go green.
Page(s) 27
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- Agenda
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- Magma
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- Matter
- Modern Poetry in Translation
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- Rialto, The
- Second Aeon
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- Shearsman
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