Heroic Head of Pierre de Wissant, One of the Burghers of Calais (1886) by Auguste Rodin
Megan Neville
It’s not like Christ’s sacrifice was the only one.
Every day somebody leaves
behind thumbprints on another’s face,
forgets to include the body which in war
is legal tender.
Graphite smudges after eleven months of siege,
decades into a sigh that took a master four years to perfect
(sticky & needy, the residue still grips).
To know is to own when you are of his kind.
Won’t you follow the gaze, find yourself inside
writhing like the unborn?
Horses are not immune to the sword. But anything,
anything
to protect the small (until it grows into a voice).
Inevitable how starvation as a weapon draws out the keys.
Cringe to live one more day, lips staggering in
the impatient line for our executions
that never come.
In the end a white queen saves the day, but only to protect her own child.
