Silver, silk, shimmering, subtle.
Lady Hatsuhana under
the waterfall. The faithful wife
of Sir Geraint. Disobedience
as a true sign of loyalty.
Her penance and pity and pain.
How arguments may reconcile
a wink and a nod and a glare.
The provenance of tradition
is of no great interest to fools.
The lottery, stoning, the dice.
Rocks rattle hand to hand like sand,
like a knotted Slinky, or like
a broken snake, lurching in grass.
I don’t know which I regret more —
kisses I never gave or got,
or when I dashed headlong into
miseries of my own making.
Hands hungry for hair twitch for touch,
soothe a worry-stone, talismans.
Uhura’s in my coat pocket.
Seshat sashays, tosses her hair,
drags her shoulders back, and stands tall.
Consider the many options.
Could this be a love poem? Maybe.
One of the possibilities.