- - Moloch is the Biblical name of the Canaanite god of child sacrifice I’m old, but gods don’t die. Our time is not your time. We sleep for your millennia, our fine heads steeped in clouds or the steam of volcanoes. I prefer this icy riverbed, its counterpoint to my burning chapels, its cool flow sluicing away the ash. Gods wake when we want, not when our minions clamor, and mine, the warlords and money-lords, are loud as fuck. Yes, we like the way you turn a phrase, all the sounds you make. Why children? Why do you ask? I was thinking of beauty. How you bury both your garbage and your dead. How when rains amplify the spring snowmelt, your graves flood, your garbage floats, and yet you let your children swim. Why children? You keep asking. As if you don’t recall leading them to the river and the fire, while I was only thinking of beauty - Your children writhing like dancers, like tree limbs in high winds or flames.
Michele Sharpe, a poet and essayist, is also a high school dropout, hepatitis C survivor, adoptee, and former trial attorney. Her essays appear in venues including The Rumpus, Guernica, Catapult, and The Sycamore Review. Recent poems can be found in Poet Lore, North American Review, Stirring, and Baltimore Review.