“No rain of flowers marked my entry into the world.”

History’s indifferent like that—
Whatever its chroniclers decree
is afterthought, footnote, hind-
sight, perhaps atonement for previous
shortcomings— And therefore,
on the other hand, is it so surprising
we want to feel more than mere
accident: unplanned-for, unhoped-for,
excess bit of baggage someone has to pay
for in steerage? Destiny likes to say
it isn’t going to hand out second chances;
and yet we’re told that history repeats
itself. What are the odds the child
born into poverty becomes the general,
and not the slave substituted for a corpse?
What luck ordained that I have wealth
but only the kind that “doesn’t compute?”
The djinns of the desert and the scripts
of old say the heavens reward all
that’s patient and uncomplaining in its toil;
that the multifoliate rose, in turning,
recalibrates the cosmic energies so she who weeps
or suffers, finds release… But Lord, for a change,
let someone else guard the front lines at battle;
let other hands barter and trade or sharpen
the weapons on the fiery wheel.


In response to Via Negativa: In the voice of Cortez's mistress.

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