The Perfect White and Crisp

first came Death
then fell The Tower
but nothing frightened me
until the Queen of Swords

out of the silence
out of the silence that
carves and rives and
separates
as only Choice can cleave,
i
feel
her

ruddy left hand raised,
not in benediction
not in welcome
but in judgement,

she sits composed
atop a lion-footed
throne of babies’
heads and butterflies,

summoning the storm
that banks behind
to swallow up the
capri sky.

her upright sword is
straight and true,
and
she grips it
lightly, easily
with the knowledge
that what is hers
                               is
hers.

one blood-tipped boot
reminds what has been
and
promises what will be

and the Priestess

well

the Priestess
can only
watch
can only
wait

wrapped in the moon
between Boaz and Jachin
clear-eyed
quiet
         and
alone

©s rogers 3 august 2010