Only a channel for the god Karmatra, she is not divine,
yet from all quarters disciples come, seeking her scent
in one part per earth. They arrive on hope complex,
testy with baggage train, waving a syringe of mental virus.
She in turn taps, empties, and samples for future use. Quoting
a mantra of Karmatra, she tells them at the induction center,
Happiness means surrender to the inner voice of Karmatra.
In thirty days you will no longer be deaf. She then pares them
down to half with crystal-vortice mind props and tucks them
away deep in a mountain panopticon before allowing them
to stiffen their hair with lime and burn the rune of her name
into their palms. Upon release, they form into regimented
dog packs. She gives them their own dishes and tags.
She tells them the world will soon end. Every few weeks
she holds court beneath the stars, on a dais outside her chateau
imported from ancient France, facing east, moon cusp in
her hair. Dosing her body with mirage, she rises
to the occasion like the wise and mighty Emperor Aurelius,
flinging her anger away, her face a wind of cliff groaning
at the edge of the shelf. Secretly, unknown to anyone
but her masseur, she desires to uproot herself in a roar
of spume and stone and slosh her way like a great giantess
around the earth's waist, walking softly upon the deep trenches
of the sea and careful not to disturb slumbering monstrosities.
This certainly would give you the visibility edge you need,
says Brian Kindred, former boyfriend and closest advisor.
But that is not enough. By means of television spots, ads,
and personal tours of major American cities, she recruits
a nation who demand secession, or at least one major island
in the Solomons chain. Outside her window at night,
they puff and bleat like lonely whales, whimper in her stalls,
run mazes and saliva gauntlets till dawn in hopes she will
absolve them of memory and juice their eyes into shiny
new strobes they can flash in the face of the locals who
think they're all crazy. But she doesn't hear them.
She only slips on headphones, listens to grrl rock
from the Kill Dolls and sips Ting-Ting Coladas.
She believes she is the reincarnation of Mataxia,
a warrior goddess from the lost continent of Mu.
She makes sure that Brian's body is never found.

   First published in North American Review