Born refugee in a gypsy's flight
to mismatch love for wherever I might be:
flowers in the pavement, lakes behind brick,
gnomes at a cotillion, cobalt sea spilling
in dunes at the sun's yellow forge
til my heart was rolled flat
to cut out round moons
with a steelsilver punch
so light passes through me
without shadow or reflection.
If tears fall, it's a petaldrop
of old flowers passing, of dust devils, gliding
unimpeded and small through
the moon-shaped holes
where the red warrior glow
of an eon's earth blood is
just a waver in that dark
where the sword falls to rust
and time takes the trowel
from the gardener's hand
whose broken her legs, her back and her heart.
The bowl wants its dust
the wind wants its wildfire
and what I might want is their last desire,
but the heat of the fight, the miles in the eye,
the pilgrims of roses proclaim what they form--
warcries, or lovesongs still riding the storm.
posted for earthweal's weekly challenge
Images: Trafficking in Human Beings, 1894, by Joaquin Sorolla Public Doman
Joan of Arc kisses the sword of liberation, 1863, by Dante Garbriel Rossetti, Public Domain manipulated.