The first sword marks
the cuts on her flesh;
Seven stories passed down generations.
The first sword severs
old tongues from lips;
Seven volumes of our imagination.
The second sword bodes
the augury of battle
The solar eclipse is an omen
Stalemate paralysis and suicides
of virgins
beckon that war is for blind men.
The third sword paints
a red nun on the doorway
Blood sacrifice here is an order
A black crow caws
foretells a calamity
Three swords and it is for murder
Black scarabs scuttle
from graves and vaginas
Four swords stand guard at the openings
both orifice and larynx mutter supplications
“the mosaic arches are crumbling.”
The fifth sword removes
the crown from the King
the downfall of men from their thrones
widows whisper for mercy and tea
heralding the era of crones
Six words rebuild
the schools and the libraries
upon rubble and ghosts of delusion
faint echoes of screams
still lurk in church hallways
and bomb shelters
now museums
Blood paints the flag
and honeymoon bedsheets
lacerations a hymn to Inanna
poets and prophets
and coffee cup readers
articulations of our chthonic longings
Commentary: When I read this poem, I felt truth seeping into my bones. The poem speaks to what is trying to come through – shattering our present delusions.
