the women
who carry claymores
and lochaber axes into battle,

in the thick
of many fights
to defeat such things
as dishonesty's passing a
copper coin covered with quicksilver
to them for an amount greater than its
value are the women who...

...who have fought,
endeavored to relieve
your uneasiness, embracing
scenes so terrible, consequences
of great magnitude,

our arrival was
opportune, though
by no mistake, wounded
nevertheless driving the enemy
into terrible confusion, knowing there
was evil lurking years before, I never felt
it best to wait until the end of the battle to write,

that little graveyard
inspires, on the other
side, a trampled-down
cornfield; the orchard in
the field of dreams, the apple
branches budding where the rods,
the divining witcher sticks are once again
employed, the cellar laden with two gallons of
good whiskey raising up the spirits of the women
rebels,

you will not
find us tanning
bad leather, rather
you will find us at the
isolated village of Tecolote,
"the place of the owl" quelling
hostility with a brass-gripped
constitution; pinning on the stars
like top brass in the Civil War, if only
for a fleeting moment, a flash of promise
for what might have been, sparks leap from
my whetstone as I keep an edge on my blade.

Copyright 4.12.2010 Ms. Sage Sweetwater, firebrand lesbian novelist