Sally prays
every day: “Lord,
make me Sword enough
to carve your path.
Let me be
neither dulled
nor dismayed
when my knees go red
from wading.
Let me suffer
the little children.
Let me suffer
the older children,
the mothers,
the fathers.
Let me be
thy will.
Let me…”
Sally’s pure
Evil. Sally
wouldn’t believe
in her own Evil
if you laid
the skulls
and limbs
you picked
from her trash
in front of her
and raised them into brief life
to accuse her
from beyond death;
wouldn’t admit it
even if they danced,
dripping, sobbing
before her,
singing her name
and pointing;
wouldn’t admit it
or know it even
if she, the Sword,
were to turn
and cut herself
down.
Dark Matter 