I am the child of fallen gods. This is how I know:
I found my parents’ altars in the attic, cobwebs nestled in the cracked stone
Mummified fruit, tarnished coin, cracked paint
The root of rot and metal and mildew that we can never air out the home
If only they had told me
They never told me because they forgot
My mother, bygone goddess of the sea: her story archived in azure mosaics on a throne sat by dust
is now an accountant
My father, former god of wind: his glory spun through spiraling sigils on a carved, beaded scepter
stocks shelves at the store
All my life I wished for excitement
Now I spoon peas on my plate across blurred-out deities
One hunched over the table in exhaustion
the other asking me to pass the salt
A child is a product of their world and I came too
soon in the wrong one — tethering gods to a plane where names
dissolve upon entry and memories wilt at the door
If love can be collateral for divinity
Am I destined for the hollowness of their worshippers?
With no more than whispers of sea-drop wings
Not quite strong enough to wield storms