Faith
There is no majestic horn that sounds
the end of battle. There is no majesty
in battle. Only knowing, abruptly, as if
a curtain’s been drawn, the actors
are not coming back to life. Knuckles
swollen and out of proportion. Giving in
to how it must go on—our arms shuffling
out the bodies, the tightness of our hips
and knees carrying the blood away from
the ground so useless to the vessels now.
I remember sitting by the window of my last
place, trying to understand. Not believing
it was over. Hating always being told
about who I was and being hated
for being the one told. As usual I was
the last to know not because I was stupid,
but because of what I wanted to exist.
***
Author photo courtesy of author
