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.