Poetry by Lola Gentry-Dey. All rights reserved.
Late in the valley at a house with her name on the door
I writhe upstairs at the hall’s very end
beating my pillow and lowing her name.
It does not matter—
her departure haunts me with the ghosts of our past
and the angels that rode her for the devil she became.
I dream of love while she burns hot in the hate zone
drawing lines across my name,
shutting herself in the ruins of the last war she fought
for followers of solitude
in the flickering light of their new Precision Tower.
She breaks promises and scatters their bones across internet headlines
where rich and powerful seductresses stroke her ego
like a harem of baboons picking lice from her hair.
She strives to stand tall
but her paraplegia is the nearest thing to being dead.
Her maestro composes wartime symphonies like a hero at Olympus
to silence my lullabies of love and peace between us.
Her war bends and warps my stance by the weight of her macabre dance
that extends the fuse to the bomb in her brain.
She is a proud soldier whose enemy hides behind the mask she wears.
She rides hard to be my villain
galloping over her war-torn ruins
in the valley at a house empty of its past.