I was not a bird
or a bride
but wedded to the thick masculine
thighs of war, a priest of the dead –
myself a small idol that gathered a
kingdom of followers. I had but one lover,
a soul drenched with my own – long hair
and pretty eyes, a man of calm devotion, while
I enjoyed my blonde hair soaked
with my conquered enemy’s blood.
I enjoyed the cries of pursuit
and the galloping of hooves on foreign sands.
I was not driven by the robe or the snake charmer’s
deep throttle. I was fresh, never a victim of fear,
writhing with rage like a piranha plucked from the waters.
In the daylight, I was whole. At night, my lover
kissed my ring, my arms and forehead. We made love
with everything left to give to only each other –
two, dying young in a tent…
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