Anna understood about throwing
back her veil, her staring down any gaze.
Will knew each sonnet began with bowing
before her, staying bent until she raised
him up, steadied his hand holding the quill.
Homer would petition her sacred song
to flow through his creative being, fill
his voice with hypnotic rhythms. What’s wrong
with my seeking her magic breath in this
age of endless war, surveillance taping
last gasps of free speech, death of new thought, kiss
of my parched lips on her sunken cheek? Sing
some Disney tune to an empty room. Curse
in whispers of despair, or something worse.
Roger Armbrust
June 30, 2013
