poem15 Jul 2013 08:00 am


My hero feels the putrid wind
on battle-torn fields
treads safely
between severed limbs and moist-slick blades
and the bodies of the fallen

My hero bathes in roses afterwards
and can less be held by any one woman
than the earth can hold the West Wind to her bosom

Royals feed from the sweet-sour embroidery
that garbs my hero’s tongue
they put the prizes he won
in the shadow of their own thrones
and they think that their lineage
can make his sword sleep
like a child in a cradle

My hero taught me
to read the flight of arrows
and how to kill my enemies
before they ever see my sword

My hero told me to hide my breasts beneath armor
and cut my long hair short
and make my voice sound darker than it is

He told me to forget the man my father was
before the armies came
and brought their wars
and took our lives away


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