She Maintains

 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.

She Descends

 Where love was gone

the dry world sighed for what was lost

and the maiden left her couch to see:

Nothing bloomed in the garden

and no tree bore fruit. 

The air had no birdsong and

rain would not fall.

She would find love and return.

What she can't take with her 

will drop onto the path:

the cloak of invulnerability,

her shining armor,

her girdle of confidence,

her many jewels,

her sword of discerning,

the words of power--

gone.

The skin unwound from her flesh,

the fat rendered in the heat,

the nerves exposed and made

into a garland for a holy tree.

Her bones walked into

the land of the dead

to find her love.