On earth, she marked her days with rage & love 
& fought the generals and their army of thieves 
& torturers. Her pen was mighty, so also their 
Arms. Death is the shadow twin, the one remaining 
In the foothills, by the backdoor, in a convent, off 
A mountainside.  

And yet, a mother’s breast awaits her infant’s mouth. 
A rooster crows and children gather what food there is 
While bells ring across the foothills when the soldiers 
Leave. A music of hope even as another child is buried 
And a land mine erupts a few kilometers from hospital.

We live in a time of suffering in places of beauty 
Where the water and air meet in mountains dark-soiled 
Food grows so effortlessly and so does greed.

We live in a time of suffering in places of beauty 
Where yesterday’s rebel is today’s president 
And greed cowers the hurt children who hunger 
Not only for their mother’s milk but a safe place 
Where peace storms the land with smiles 
and the tender removal of all aspects of war

A phantasm of peace. A peace unlike the other 
Ones—negotiated and then neglected, thus 
Military rifles, handguns, machetes, bowie knives, unexploded landmines 
All made so that peace will end and terror return

What you hear is the sea—the heavy waves come in 
Go out. Stars pattern—Orion’s belt or is that his heel? 
And then another woman of letters departs, will she 
Step on Orion’s heel? 

Would she say excuse me, I did not see your heel. 
Would she try to hide her error as her celestial 
Garments drag across the night sky. What if Orion

Could speak, and if he did, would he say, all the 
Poets love my heel or my belt, you’re not the first 
To seek an anchor here.