She hangs by her ankles,
iron hook run in.
She hangs by the bones of her ankles,
feet above head.
The dry heat of the land
where the sun doesn't shine
and the rain doesn't fall
bakes her skull
and her soul is thirsting.
And here she is, bereft:
no cloak of invulnerability,
no shining armor,
no girdle of confidence,
gone are her jewels,
her sword of discerning,
her words of power--
even her skin is gone.
The shadow of her tongue longs
for wine.
The shadow of her tongue yearns
for water.
But she can taste:
blood of a soldier
tears of a lover
sweat of a laborer.
And new skin forms over
the dry chalk of her form.
