They proclaimed she
was the “all-or-nothing” breed,
a single lark thriving amongst the wrens.
The sweetest sacrifice
Her eyes were as lanterns, luminous and protruding,
as if she had ingested the heavens and now
they sought a means to escape.
For the good of the many
The slow slant of her lips
was textured and fine,
a simpering halt in her meadow of face.
Do not fear, little one
The disciples sang at her altars and allow
her put-upon face to blur through the lines,
streaking under the curls of their incense.
You will be blessed
Skin faintly blue shines silky as lies,
still like the cloak wrapped tight around her soul.
A knife presses close, slight
You are the savior
and silver as the pulse of her heart.
Eyes flicker wide; her
last breath slides through.
One life paid for all
She is the world,
they whisper,
hushed as the tears of her blood cry down their arms.
I took the title from a line in Karen Volkman’s “[She goes, she is, she wakes the waters]”