She woke up last Tuesday
and found that she’d become
a myth: not a lie,
not a falsehood or even a statistic, but a myth.
Her entire biography apparently explained
something cosmic.

Her steps from the bed
to the bathroom echoed; her new toothbrush
was a relic by the time
she’d finished her molars,
and she heard a coterie of acolytes gathering on the patio,
chanting her name as she opened her yogurt.

The train had become a pilgrimage that morning
with saffron robes and smoking censers all around. She saw
her name carved into the vinyl of a forward coach seat
and when she ran her hand over the cuts, passengers all around
held their breath. A conductor roped it off
after she moved away. The crowds hung behind her as she walked to the office

from the station. She kept thinking that this was crazy,
couldn’t they see she was ordinary, a blender and not a standout?
Who could think this was anything sacred, this mess of spreadsheets
and meetings where, even today, nothing was getting done (although
she noticed her boss sneaking looks at her as if she was made of gold
and the room hummed like Delphi every time she spoke)?

That night, while her husband slept, she opened her childhood book
of Greek stories and read for hours of doings that made sense of the world.
Gods coupled with humans, walls of iron warriors rose from the teeth of dragons,
and people were torn apart and rebuilt in the name of bringing order to chaos.
Chaos himself was an actor too, and she thought of him as she read. Thought of
numbers pulled from the air and wrestled into place. Thought of wounds held secret

to prove strength when they were finally revealed.
She began to shine around the third hour
of reading. Her arms were strong against the old current in the air.
She left the house, its daily altars, its offerings; outside
the crowds had thinned but the strongest believers remained true
and hovered below her, watching her rise.