© 2016 Sandra Jean-Pierr

Dust settling

and there’s that horizon

eyebright painful

even with
four fingers,
planked across brows
furrowed in knowing

even with shadows
cast across
broad nose bridges,
nostrils flared
against
the unrelenting
stench
of
dispatched
complacency.

Blood-speckled
freckles,
sticky…

and it no longer
bothers
that these hands are dirty,
stained

that
this cutlass
(faithful servant)
stays clutched,
tightly.

Their chants
call me

foolish
brave
warrior

as They
pray the way through
every battle

Their chants,
becoming my
syncopated heart-beat,
these Ancestor
drum beats

serenade me,
urging me
forward…

casting aspersions
much like failing spells,
can only be done
from a
distance.

And I see you.

Such
a pity, really

that you scare so easily
of your shadow

living in
haunted corridors,
supping on long forgiven
ghosts

Let
Your G-d
forgive you
for what you don’t know…

and I’ll let
my G-d
forgive you
for Me.
© 2016 Sandra Jean-Pierre