HourGlass Soldier

Building your face with tattered
pieces of roses

forcing the garden to answer

to a silhouette

restraining the carefree fall of a petal

to the sharp arc

that draws from the height
of your left cheekbone

and dips into your chin

like heaven's parentheses

to etch, to grasp, to capture

the outer edges of your

uncontainably graceful slips

at the shoreline of

the places where your soul

crashes into your body

in this maddeningly

silent bolt of

enlightenment

without the

thunder

watching storm clouds
span across the limitless skies
of your iris
and you there caught
in the eye of the storm
in a black hole
as deep as night
swallows the day whole
and sinks into the
the farthest reaches of your
wartorn mind:

I find the shadows of
history
roaming over your site
like a curse
of blindness
at birth
is where you
learned
to fight
la lucha, la lucha,
flor y mi amor,
la vida es la lucha.