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werewolf
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mary walked full of child - human child, veins, constant tugging, on the desert and the stars for water, not enough water - into a hostile and tired town.
she went straight in, as bold as any boadicea (her bowed head a scream that made men drop their weapons, hide behind their work), her love at this moment as prepotent as boadiceas or dido's before their husbands were slain,
her revenge as shirt tearing, as gripping as those queens she shared everything with but god.
those same
daggers they picked up,
she felt the need for but stripping naked, placed down.
when she went into jerusalem, this time it was not in the front, it was
the back,
like a tired general
talking over orders,
ignoring posterity,
which means a return home
for you or your loved ones.
her son was now just the same
grinded infantry
as so many others had been.
that was the miracle,
but here was her warrior trick.
she battered down those who had wronged her with a tenderness
with a softness
they would never know in their cold
hard lives
(in which victory just meant another day to toil in)
unless,
unless they surrendered.
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040414
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