what depth in the blue that veiled her face,
like a secret trying to expunge itself.
coquette. demoiselle. mistress. harlot to any man who wandered
into her night. she was sheer fantasy, sheer as the nylons that
adorned her legs. gifts of soldiers to barter for her flesh.
disregard that she was someone’s daughter, & possibly someone’s
mother. that she slept on a small cot like nuns in a cloister. that she
cooked a fine meal, went to church, & wept for the abuses laid on
her back. there is no room in the story for such.
she was consort to this army or that, which came thru her village.
those who were ruthless, those who were vindicators: it was not
for her to judge.
call her those names, but do not omit angel of mercy. where she was
needed, she would go. a street café, saloon, a haven for the lonely;
under an argent moon or falling rain.
say she was conduit for the turbulent passions of men, passions
grotesque & artistic. perhaps once or twice, someone looked deeply
upon her, held her hand, & said he loved her. maybe that was enough.
a melting she was; the lonely island of herself.
(Art: Frantisek Drtikol)