Sonnet for the Beaten Woman

May the white-faced cuticle moon give you reason to walk through
another bland blue-sky day. May the hoards of flaming red,
orange and yellow flowers place their names into your ears:
orange poppies, red poppies, sunflower explosions.

May the winter-dried marsh suddenly flood with green reeds,
ruddy ducks, Caspian terns and belted kingfishers. Don’t forget
it’s the female kingfishers, not the usual males, who carry the colors,
who possess the power of attraction. Remember this and let your hair

refuse to be tamed. Let it form its crimson crazy halo
around your face. Let the smile-preachers fear your volcanic
eruptions, the smelting oven of your eyes, the white noise
of a thousand hornets inside your mouth. Tell them today is the last try

out of ten, the last admittance into the locked hospital wing.
Tell them this is the end. The end of anger. The last urge to run.


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