, ,

she took a copyright
for a glorious revolution
under her name
before serving it
in a silver platter
to the financiers of the war

a temperate, tropic-hearted woman
a passionate, all-about-love woman
she disappears
for months at a time
wears a flawless disguise
some say is her real face
entombs her heart
in a sheath of ice
acquires the stance
of a South Pole woman
and spreads her
previously dulled spark
like peacock feathers
and flaunts it

so that she could
convincingly add
fifteen years to her age
and sit at table
with tycoons
and demand a lioness’s share
of a carcass and be
as predatory as it takes
to rule the world

working on holidays
mercilessly charging
professional fees
for doing what she does
just because no one else can
pricing her hours
at six-digit figures
threatening to walk
at whim
just to watch
grown men grovel
getting kicks out
of capitalist mayhem
selling to the highest bidder
her brilliance
so recently pulled
from the shelf
where she kept it
for safekeeping
for years
while she
pursued love
so many times
and failed
so many times

on calculated breaks
she weeps
for all the friends
she left behind
to get this far
all the burned bridges
all the warm roads
left untended
until they froze over

she is cold
and the fear
that she might get cold
beyond repair
beyond reach
sends her running
melting back
to that side of her
that they see everyday
and think they know
everything about

once more,
she dulls her spark
once more,
she takes off her mask
revealing what some say
is the real camouflage