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.