It’s easy to imagine
her, her body shaped
around her pain
the way a tree grows
around a field stone, bends
to the givenness of the thing.
But beyond that,
what do we know?
Was she young, old, fat,
skinny, angry, resigned?
We know only that the blood,
the slow muddy endless river
of it, stained everything,
her touch, her breath, her gaze,
until her life became a drama
of evasion.
Then one day he happened
by on urgent
business,
coming from a showdown
heading to a showdown,
between plundering hell and
robbing graves,
and she grew crazy
bold, grabbing hand
over fist every limb
in her way until she blazed
a trail straight to his feet
and balled tight
the hem of his robe
in her tainted fist.
It’s easy to imagine, years later,
Her dilemma: was it the power that came
out from him
she cherishes the most,
or the way he spoke her name
for the first time,
Daughter?
Mark Buchanan
11/16/14