After freeing the slaves with                                                                                                                 
your simple inertia, you slipped out                                                                                                          
of the tent, past King Holofernes’s                                                                                                      
gaurds, and into the night;

there were no gaurds for you.                                                                                                                 
For another king’s revision,                                                                                                                   
you were too defiant.  Braver                                                                                                                       
in your risks than Lot, you sacrificed                                                                                                    
yourself, and instead of turning to salt,                                                                                                
you left never looking                                                                                                                         
back.  While the first                                                                                                                          
forced you to stay, King James                                                                                                             
sent you into the desert                                                                                                                       
once more.  You must be

near a cook fire tonight,                                                                                                                     
bulgur and onion scenting the air                                                                                                         
from the pot which your beloved                                                                                                 
handmaiden stirs while you stand                                                                                                       
looking out at the undecipherable                                                                                                      
horizon, a warm glow barely touching                                                                                                     
your blue robes at the edge of light.

Leave a comment

Filed under poetry

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s