La Luchadora
©2016 Susan Noyes Anderson
image by Ed Ross
Her hair is dressed in roses;
a waved trellis,
verdant and visceral,
rooted in animus
(head-as-hostile-soil).
Her hair is dressed in roses;
a waved trellis,
verdant and visceral,
rooted in animus
(head-as-hostile-soil).
The heavy desert heat
assaulted her,
shut down her cool,
absorbed her essence,
stole from her the
right to breathe.
She loves him with a love profound,
but not that well-expressed.
The sweetness sings inside her heart
but rarely leaves her chest.
Your every move is cagey, I suspect;
and thus I am a trifle circumspect
in interactions co-opted by you.
“You’re the worst decision I ever made,”
he said. It nearly knocked her dead.
She’d given him her heart so long ago.
She didn’t know how much that gift would cost:
she lost herself. She wasn’t faultless…
When wells of love in me run dry,
and I no longer see
the cup of living water
kindness offers up to me,
In ancient times Christ walked upon the earth
as Son of God, a man of flesh and bone.
Some loved Him from the moment of His birth.
Some came to love Him after He was grown.
Take me to the mountain crest
along a winding trail.
Let the sweet air fill my chest;
lift me like a sail.