lady of the desert*

the wind,
she doesn't see it coming

it hits her face
like someone's spit
dragging
like a stream
across her skin
carving scars
across the
desert

make the parade
across the land

the sun,
she doesn't see it coming

her robe
shifts up and down
her back
the weight of
tectonic plates
scrape off
the dry autumn
leaves

burn as bright
as a sacrifice

the men and women,
she doesn't see them coming

born
not for love
but for the sake
of formula
born
because from that height
he cannot see me
and he cannot see you
but
because from that height
all he can ever see
is a view

the graves and landfills
hold a handful of ideas

this,
she doesn't see coming

the winds hit her
and the sun burns her
but she marches on
knowing no justice
but the forces between
her own two feet
she marches on
with one hand held up
not in search
for what she deserves
she marches on
with one hand held up
simply to
balance herself
against the world

she is not blind
but blinded

so,
she doesn't see this coming





* Captive Andromache, painted by Frederic Leighton.
* Dedicated to you. Is there any justice in this? Do we deserve any of it? The happiness? The sorrow? I do not know. I only know that there is a balance ... somewhere. And one day, the scales will tip back in your favour. If not, I owe you $1,000,000, remember?