Spain 1480 A.D.

She was ichorus & a rumour:
Men & women in the city streets said
She was her own elixir:

The poets’ carved splashing cadences
In a faerie tale-esque hallowing of
Her tale:
“how she weeps sugar!
How this maiden’s tears can swim
Upon invented rivers that flow into
Pacific scepters, peel clouds,
& unchain torches! How these suns
Melt into auroras: kaleidoscopic
Lounges for common folk! How
She must galvanize seraphs for
The evolution of a stage…all w/
The curl of a wand she hides in
The mimicry of time; O that she
Might sing & have me drown
Upon the sound!”

Ah, so, the poets bleed, the beggar’s
Squeak & the call girls’ ricochet the
Saturnalia beat, for here she comes,
Young Aphrodite in an age where they
Burn witches!

Down the blanched aisle,
She could feel it: the irony of May,
Feudal ballet slippers, & the burden of
Enchanting flowers.
They were all grey… they were all
A poorly lit audience for, her.
Why not dress in red, she thought,
Why not dress in the domain of your
Truth?!
Why are we so scared that we must
Melt into silvery ashes so soon?
Even the poets.
The poets are worse than the carpenters,
The mothers duplicating their eyes
Into smaller versions of hate, the
Priests saving souls, or the rebels still
Vindicated thru
Allegiances translating & delivering
The language of sin.

The poets fan the flames because they
Also wear experimental frames:
& together, they peer in & out of
The same perpetual window…
But no love song could save her;
& sometimes,
Poets are not messiahs or guardian angels
They simply see overtly.

Something about the day: something
About how the sky broadcasted
A lusty afterglow of violet… something
About how the walls seemed flushed
& the aisle, an omen,
A procession it was for a cardinal star;
The shadows knew it…
The shadows knew it…

She started to twirl; she closed her eyes
& simply felt the wind on her body;
They charged her then.
They had it planned: they all came
Screaming out of their homes & shoppes,
Women carrying babies,
& men, fisting monstrous motions
To the same idol she adored, unknowingly.
It was overwrought
Today by hues of lavender, lilac & plum.
Everyday, by some covert color.

She decided not to hear them.
She listened to the voices of her heroes
& her heroines: the music of Venus, the
Aroma of her tavern, she could see her
Being born in the swirling clouds tossing
Down daisies!

& as these dragons pulled her down,
Drug her body across the crusted ground,
& erected her statue on the mast of their
Maker’s town, she surely could not
Feel them…
The fire. Their holy pyre.
She leaned in for the kiss of her lover
& became a candle of Spring!