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.

The Chase

 It's time for this ritual again

as the quarry has appeared,

moving out in the rough like

a jewel--I have seen them

like pure white elk or

perfect red heifers or

an ebony doe, streaking

free and unminded

and then brought down

by a thousand arrows:

or at least, by Heaven! 

the men will try.

Every one of them an attempted sacrifice

to the withered limb of a 

bitter little god with a face

like a dried-out apple.

Powerful witches who had to be

stopped, lest their magic shrink men

to the size they want women to be.

The hunters shout after them: "Medusas! Jezebels!"

as they watch the desired prey,

uncovered hair waving like

tired snakes threatening to snatch

these sorry heroes like

fish in a net. They cry like dogs, 

sent raving mad after a 

flaming brush disappearing into a field--

until the grass itself is set afire

with her brilliance.

They could never hold what they intend to catch;

but they would see it destroyed.

Impatient on a Monument

Tell me what you

elevate

commemorate

memorialize

and I will show you

your examples

your values

your character

for these monuments

are not mere

milestones

idly marking a path

with just

a number along the way:

a concrete literal fact--

but the time it took to

render the hairs on

a horse's ass

as lovingly as

you tend to your own face.