Jaunt and Joust
God save me should I give birth to an ideal farfetched
from feathers plucked too early from the wild birds of Eden Island.

God save me should I lower my head,
share favors with the wandering knights a fit in joust.

God save the goodbye kiss. Forbidden kiss. The last kiss.

God save the lonely women of Eden Island otherwise occupied by the war effort.

God save the men of the fields
sowing corn on the first sweltering midsummer dusks,
the 13th and 14th wounds.
The unraveling of June,
measuring your moons by the sphere of a flickering light bulb.

God save the factory.
The farm.
The yarn my mother pulled neath sticks to cover me with blanket flesh.

God save the joust and horse,
the wild animals left pure and savage on Eden Island.

The last boat docked, docile on the pier.

God save the argument, the ocean, the dirt on my face, the plow in the barn,
the freckled faces of those same preoccupied knights heaving battle late into the night.

God save the food women are cursed to eat and replenish with.

God save the way he looks at me.
God save the picket fence, and window hole.

The holy blessed devirginalized vinaigrettes.

God save the girls afraid to eat.

God save the forests with their wondering noises and shadows.

God save boys who read their bibles –
the ones who heal and start wars with words in the deserts of Eden Island.

God save the panicked kings, and thirsty queens.
The princes soon to wed
and the princesses closing their eyes
as their foremothers once did
from the fiercer winds of Eden Island as they blow
marginally in consistently wayward directions.