poem

she is convinced that love is a crusade
the sacred war that never ends
her hair is the flag
her heart, a horse
she rides
drooping
and fat
the armor didn't fit
she stuffs a soldiers rations down her throat
to pad her skin
the darts fly
and then the spears
the bullets pierce
her heart keeps riding
this is holy
what warriors live for
the chance to die in battle
the blood of the enemy clinging to bits of scalp
scrunched inside the dark
of heroic fists
crisping to ash
atop funereal pyres