Will she dance now in slow unmeasured steps
across the mirrored shimmer of the floor
and, to music seeping from luxuriant decor,
disclose in movement where her soul has crept
to please an eye past peace, that never slept?
She offers feathered throat to Father’s claw
she tastes the blood her father’s blood anoints
In this dream she learns the shadow and its point
then fixes fast to each strict Papal law
to hold the dream from judging what it saw
This memory: the mango scented breeze
Father plays with household money in the yard
Uncle turns and father palms a card
Four small dresses twirl around the trees
one cap gun snaps at prisoners on their knees
She dances to the solstice of her grief
Harsh seasons end abruptly with a dawn
She seeds this hope, as all her hopes are sown
inside the pain but finally at her ease
to harvest, some next summer, graceful peace
The Hour is Coming, and Now Is 