Before battle she brushes her hair
/a hundred strokes and sour breath/
Unfolds a vintage blue teal dress
from lady beetle tissue
Throws two dice on a leather place mat
looking for a set of sixes
Scents of collection
/her favorite is branded as "Judy Fly's to the Moon"/
history her age and taste
and are sometimes stolen
by visitors and the landlord
(he cuts keys in the night under her house)
She has watched films and practiced her etiquette
Stolen habits from noisy days
Chosen her face for war
Chosen this day as hers
And her red hair
falling of wind
says to a lonely man
"spin for me like the season would"
And here on the path
and into the street
she offers up a sentiment to the town
on this
her chosen day
with a black boot through a public viewing window
and undresses a mannequin for her pleasure
* "All poets are war poets"
