Most merciful Allah,

all praise belongs to thee,

thee alone do I worship, 

and from thee alone do I seek help.

 The Christians have returned

and with them war.

Thy great city is clouded with despair.

Thy people shudder,

fearful Jerusalem will be set upon

by the drum of marching men desperate

to despoil thy name.

I fear their purpose.

They come not as friends or followers,

but as usurpers,

pagans seeking to conquer land fertile and rich,

a people old with traditions deeper

than those afar in Rome.

What right say I,

that they should force upon thy children,

upon me and mine,

a belief that is as foreign to us,

as ours is to them?

What right say I,

that they come in judgment,

to malign and disfigure

when they are but worldly children

in the fits of tantrums?

I beg thee great Allah,

make thee signs that I might

know thy wishes,

that I might follow in thy

footsteps and show the

Christians enlightenment.

The outrages of Godfrey lie

heavy upon my heart, upon the

holy lands his emperor claims his own.

Take my hand.

Lead me so I may lead

my brothers and strike them down

in one final battle.

Help me great Allah,

and I will give thee Jerusalem

before the mantle of dawn rises

above the dunes.

Petulant King,

sword sheathed and silent,

time wearies thine restless mind,

turns thy good-nature distant to all

but lands ripe for harvest.

I know thine heart dear husband,

thy lust for Godfrey’s crusades.

Thy seek the booty of campaigns upon

battlefields rich with the blood of

thine enemy, Alexis.

Thou cannot hide it.

I have seen thy moods swing lately,

thy temper shorten,

thy enraged fits and boastful

threats heaped upon those nearest thee.

No treaty will stay thy hand,

no precious promises of peace,

whose boundaries of stone and earth

stand sentinel before thy lustful urges,

can stop thee.

Lo do I hold thee close to my bosom,

wishful that my love can sway thee

and stay thy savagery,

I know it not enough to win thy favor.

Thou will do what thy desire and

take sword in hand once more.

But I beg thee dear King,

think of our son,

thine heir.

Would thou place him perilous

before charging hooves and cursing men,

upon a wild steed wielding mace and blade

in thine honor?

What glory is buried within such folly?

What recompense?

He is but a tender child,

short of years and battle knowledge.

Would thou make me grievous,

despondent,

spiteful over his return

upon limping steed and ruined shield?

Raise thy banner if you must,

seek that which torments thee

and boils thy blood,

but I beg thee dear husband,

spare him,

leave me our son.

ragged breaths,

steeped in suffering,

are all that remain of

Hope’s life.

Her mind floats

amid essences of honeysuckles,

above a body bent and tucked,

distant of Crazy Bill’s hurt

and pain

and abuse.

All around her

the night is warm

and alive,

yet all Hope feels is the 

coldness that numbs her.

She barely notices 

the cold hand sliding beneath

her dying body.

Caked lashes flutter and

Hope’s one good eye opens to gaze

upon a fretting woman

as destitute as she.

“Dear child,

who did this to you?”

The words are emotional,

loving,

words Hope has not heard since the day

Crazy Bill stole her away.

She coughs,

spills his name,

then is lost in the woman’s smile.

The kiss is quick.

Incisive.

Invasive.

The lips smooth,

the breath old and fetid.

It is not her mother’s kiss,

yet in that fleeting moment

between life and death,

when life flees and time stops,

Hope understands

and welcomes her birth.

* * * *

Haughty and arrogant,

with words sharper than her teeth,

The woman speaks silently

to Hope again,

“Show me this thing…

this Crazy Bill, you speak of.”

Hand in hand upon the

warm night currents,

they rise together

like ghostly

apparitions escaping graves.

Hope’s thoughts swirl anew.

She is alive again,

soaring,

flying with the night birds

that flee before them.

They settle on the dark side of the road,

beneath a starry summer night,

near the park where Crazy Bill claimed her.

Hope’s eyes fix on Crazy Bill’s house.

“Is that his house?”

The woman’s question is not a question,

but a confirmation

of not who,

but what he is.

Hope nods.

Inside the cloistered hell hole,

beyond the dull glow of lights

framing shadeless windows,

his shadow moves,

striding,

malignant.

Memories stir of tortorous weeks

when Crazy Bill kept her hidden,

a thing he played with,

a toy he owned.

When Crazy Bill lurches onto the porch,

his fat-bellied T-Shirt soured and stained,

Hope licks her lips,

and then spits,

expelling a sizzling plume of hatred

that evaporates before it hits ground.

She tugs to free herself from

the woman’s hand,

but the grip is strong and firm,

unrelentling.

Wicker creaks

and rockers moan as he settles into the chair.

Light flairs around Crazy Bill’s head

and a raspy sigh

dispels a streamer of blue

white smoke into the darkness,

soiling her night.

Hope breaths deep,

inhaling his pungent essence

that is tantilizingly sweet.

“Would you like to meet him again?”

Hope nods again,

and together,

they rise and drift across the road

towards Crazy Bill.

Love’s Lament

Sightless

Breathless

Cold hearts, jilted and soiled,

With souls frosted in shadows,

Awaken!

Rejoice!

And speak not of the chill that binds your spirit,

Or the coldness that has turned your heart,

A new day comes with sparkling new promises.

There is hope, there is joy,

There is love.

Breathe

See