The Flour-Child

The ambrosia of all humankind rose from her searing womb.

Its birth was slow, slow, slow. As ichor flowed into the groom

She was pummeled, twisted, to be forced into an early bloom.

Legerdemain connived to form a goddess from the spume

And so she was pulled, slammed and turned, from morning to the noon.

Then, for hours, she was left untouched, fertile and left to rollick

Her pregnant belly growing as she wallowed in godly rubric

Left to rise, to grow, but to be thumped back in manners rhythmic

To rise again, a godly queen, within a throne metallic.

This fecund Ishtar felt her fate—the scalding, burning, searing fire mythic.

And it was born! Born, still! The apotheosis of paneity

From its fruitful mother’s breast, with unending alacrity

Rose with care, was touched, caressed, perused, with utmost agility

And as the plaintive peaceful mother laid in her tomb of omniety

Her child was celebrated joyously, endlessly, by all of humanity.