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Woman of Thunder and Spice



her allure was made of callae & white curare & bloodsongs.
to die in her bed would be the sweetest death, & every
warrior’s ascension to Mecca.

we impudent knaves would dance her till midnight, then
make stormy love with her till the dawn berated us &
ushered us back to our barracks with limp libidos & the
scarlet bite of her adieu on our shoulders.

we ran with her through the wildflowers after a picnic,
chased her to a copse of sheltering trees, tore off our
peasant garments feverishly as we watched her unburden
her fierce beauty of a simple cotton dress.

in the grip of her beckoning arms & royal legs, our greedy
hands & our worshipping mouths traversed the kindling
flesh of a feral maiden; we learned without consequence
that this was the passion for which gods created a man.

when we were sent to war, we stood in regimented line under
a scowling sun, to kiss her lips, to wrap our arms around her
one last time; to remember that this – this is what we fight for.

under the smoke of bursting shells, we charged the enemy’s
trenches with her sigh upon our lips, her taste on our tongues.
if it was ordained that we must perish in battle, we would do
so valiantly down to our last number but one. one of our troop
must return to tame the wildness in her, to give her many babies,
& to toil with her upon the savage earth, until all green things
erupted & proclaimed the country a Paradise.

and on that glorious morning when the gates of heaven opened,
he would be welcomed by the laughing ghosts of his fire-crowned
brothers, awaiting stories of her love,

of her thunder & spice…



Written by JohnFeddeler
Published
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