I know better than to leave the house



without my good dress, my good knife







like Excalibur between my stone breasts.



Mother would have me whipped,







would have me kneeling on rice until



I shrilled so loud I rang the church







bells. Didn’t I tell you that elegance is our revenge,



that there are neither victims nor victors







but the bitch we envy in the end? I am that bitch.



I am dogged. I am so damned







not even Death wanted me. He sent me back



after you sacked my body







the way your armies sacked my village, stacked



our headless idols in the river







where our children impaled themselves



on rocks. I exit night and enter your tent







gilded in a bolt of stubborn sunlight. My sleeves



already rolled up. I know they will say







I am a slut for showing this much skin, this



irreverence for what is seen







when I ask to be seen. Look at me now: my thighs



lift from your thighs, my mouth







spits poison into your mouth. You nasty beauty.



I am no beast, but my blade







sliding clean through your thick neck



while my maid keeps your blood off







me and my good dress will be a song



the parish sings for centuries. Tell Mary.







Tell Eve. Tell Salome and David about me.



Watch their faces, like yours, turn green.





