In the rush to live he found his maker
sleeping. He was only the god of war.
He’s gone out alone to be heroic.
He’s seen humanity’s face dull with death.
She who has been waiting storms the boudoir.
She yanks the girl’s hair, feathers floating down.
Who is going to be her man now she’s
banished him to the shadows of her house?
He goes back where he can talk to himself
and pay a woman to calm him inside.
She waits, but not for him, there is much work
to do, everything ahead, all her works.
The woman who takes off her clothes for men
is not she inhabiting the mirror.
The war he can’t forget or remember.
From far off he saw men crowding his house.
The blind always know him. His son can see
what’s coming with the clouds like shooting stars
and dreams of a life without a father.
Are there ever enough to go around?
(23 March 2013)
copyright 2013 by Floyce Alexander
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