Monday, 20 August 2012

no medals for martyrs

We said

there’s no medals for martyrs

she said

it’s not fair they all got the reasons to smile.

We said

stop then, there’s no brown bear dressed up for the circus beating his drum behind your back, on the soft cobbled road his brown feet chose to stomp on

and still she whined, still she wept seven tears for each day of the week, still she said

you don’t understand how hard life is—for me—

and we, not being soothsayers or psychics, not being fleet-footed sprits with mischievous grins, said

the wine spills the same on every carpet

every ankle has the same tendons for twisting

love does not fall like cherry blossom

but if it did

you’d need to have your face pointed up for it to hit you on the nose

She stomped her foot and cursed the foul winds that blew her to our crossroads.

She stomped and she told us we were no use at all and it was just her luck,

well, we grinned and said


just your luck

just like that.

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