and a pome

[jazzfish]

To paraphrase Steven Brust Neil Gaiman talking about Steven Brust, I don't write poems. This is one of the poems I don't write.

"Swan Song"

Still I see her in my mind's eye,
my dear sweet sister, blessed
by Heaven itself:
now she dances with her king,
now sits awhile, talks
with our brothers, or smiles
at her people.

The Archbishop is nowhere to be seen:
"recalled to Rome in haste,"
so said the king.
(At such a celebration, his dour
countenance will not be missed.)

And mounted above her throne, for all to see,
relics of the morning's miracle:
eleven grey-green shirts
of stinging-nettles woven.

Say rather ten.
For the eleventh shirt was unfinished.

I walk the battlements alone tonight, having no
interest in the celebration, no
desire to be mocked anew
by her people.

Her people.
All day long I have felt their eyes upon me,
heard the mutterings as I passed.
Accursed. Demon. Freak.
Cheated of their proper spectacle
by Heaven's miraculous intervention,
they seek elsewhere to sate their thirst.
The sentiments the Archbishop raised
will not so easily be put down.
This crowd wants blood.

But what a miracle it was!

Eleven of us circling her,
keeping back her tormentors
as she wove the nettle-flax into the last of the shirts.
Her time was short; the fires
already licked about her feet as
she cast the shirts over us.

And in a heartbeat
there we stood: eleven princes tall and bold
before the king her husband,
the Archbishop, the executioner,
and the crowd. No witch-burning for them today.
My eldest brother spoke
(he always had a way with words):
"Yes, she is innocent!"
All believed him -- how could they not,
with signs such as these before their eyes?
Meanwhile we pulled our sister from the flames.
And not 'til I had fumbled twice
with the ropes, before being pushed aside,
did I look down at my arms.

The left, strong and true, as
a prince's arm should be;
the right still pinioned in white.

For the eleventh shirt was unfinished.

Surely, my brothers say,
it is by the grace of God that I was restored at all,
brought back to “human” form, the curse broken.
But I remember.

Far better I had remained--
No.
I will not dishonor her sacrifice,
the years in the wilderness, the nettles
burning her hands, and no cry to escape
her lips.
Who am I to judge?

I turn to face the precipice,
spread my wings once more

and fly--