She shows us how to pierce the neck, the shaft
all a quiver in the airway, the man’s
eyes still agog. The poor bastard who laughed,
coughed just once and then flopped forward. Her clan’s
riders swept through the green cornfields, now flame.
All their arrows rose up and then came down.
Gravity, I love you. The sort of fame
she offers in a blood-splattered nightgown
is not for me. Poets do not amuse
her. I’m telling this backwards. She can slice
bone crazy. She has the mark of Venus
in one eye. Is such violence an excuse
to be enamored? Don’t care if the dice
roll tens; I’ll always bet on this princess.