Woman, after the waves licked your wounds
desert dry, and the heavy stones flew up above your head,
you became a soft legend, a fire among the dead
with a pen in your hand, your nails blood red
from the hours spent climbing the glass.
The water lily sank from the weight of
your shoe, as the tar-mud on your hands rinsed clean;
a new life, the death was raw and a blinding green.
You perched in blue quiet on the water lily; a pale queen
on your throne undeniable; immortal and lost.
Your eyes, dark wide open, absorbed
a thousand glances, a million and one days
of lovers holding feathers in a thick violet haze
over the chasm in which you wandered with no age
while hundreds of sung heroes built altars to display your mind.
The water’s fingers, black from earth’s speech
held you serene and steady, forbidding you to cry,
fearing you might shatter the spell when you rose up to die.
They shut your eyes against the colors floating by
until sleep came bold and brazen, a new dress among the rags.