where the writers are
The Body

The body lay lifeless on the shore.
Gentle waves lapping at the foot
engulfing it, caressing.
A hopeful prod from the shock of the ice water,
as if to revive,
or perhaps apologize.

No remnants of the night's anger --
when our most precious Lady,
disturbed, enraged, had lashed out.
She pulled herself up to her greatest height
and frothed volatiley at the mouth.
Spitting words of frustration towards the stoic monoliths
protecting her border,
who, in turn, threw her hysterical tirade right back at her;
Like the eldest child talking back to its mother.
No, there were no remnants --

Except the body.

The body lay broken and distorted,
hanging half-over the jagged rock, our Lady's weapon.
The remnants of clothing
clinging to the body, drenched with fear.
One hand lay gnarled, a fistful of sand
stuck from the pressure to her palm.
Her leg, crooked and bent back,
mocking the head in death like it never could in life.
And her face was indistinguishable.
Half of it face down, kissing the sand.
The other half, thrashed.
Ribbons of flesh, bloody from battle.
The eye swollen shut, dead.
No more vision, no more light.

But this half of the body
of a young girl,
tortured to death by her dearest friend
reveals nothing,
but if that side of her face
pressed to the sand
could be seen --
serenity, love
respect for the life force
that can give,
and so irrationally take away.

Forget the twisted limbs and swollen features.
Block out the nightmare,
the rage
that inevitably must come,
and focus your eyes, your dilated pupils,
at the setting sun.
Enjoy the calm before, just like her;
Understand, and kiss the sand with me.