Just after the dust
bedded down—curled
against original surfaces—

and just before hope clawed
its way through the clots of generations…

Light
lengthened leisurely
out of new-fangled, unlined palms,
out of her
eager nerve extremities
onto tightrope absolutes, such as
the good terra, the good fish and fowl, the good flora,
and the good man-child.

Liberated from the electric womb
Spirit, then
rushed through the water womb Flesh,
the girl—the very good
final sigh of her father, the kindly Patron,
who made Love
anticipating the feral joy of her bloom as singular
heir to receptivity—

she—the beloved bona fide,
quick-fix damsel—
simply tripped on a heady heart,
recasting vulnerability as thrashing agony…

Her rape is familiar to us—called famine, war, separation,
pleasure in pain, etcetera;

in order to mourn her,
one day mark the grave
and move on,
the Patron must always fix on her birth name.

Lucia.

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