Bathing with the Devil's Daughter


whitewashed, with hair
silvery in the snow, silence creaks
as dandelions walk the shadow
slowly, in sandals, broken, wilting, crushed.
feet sink into the desultory leaves
like two tiny pendants falling from the moon
sinking,
sinking and little shivers in the cold air
a faint needle falls on the moon too
so far it falls that a twinkle is heard
in desolation, like a withering girl clutching matchsticks quivering in the cold

the lights snuff out,
she sits still
the morning comes and goes
as jovial veneers break into the dam of silence like wild wolves hungry for a dove

there will be pillaging there will be plunder there will be tired broken bodies
arms dismembered legs spread apart
and then with
bitterness as green as summer,

the light is out
and nothing waits for a bloodied dove



*In the cold dank basement of the UN HQ in NYC, on the last day, when heavy-suited delegates take their leave and the shiny plastic tiles reflect only a silent row of typists glued to the screens before them, an occasional man in blue with baton and all, and a tired asian, jaded by the solitary and sonorous glamour of it all*