Rosalie has a buzzcut, and wears a plain grey tank top,
dull, black bunts stuffed in scuffed and worn boots
Lawson Mcghee Library on a Friday morning,
Good Friday, the early spring light through the
windows, like halos recovering from the night before.
I watch her at the check out desk, a stack of books,
Saint Joan, Lore of Angels, a book about a lonely girl,
that one a picture book.
She seems tired, slight scent of dried sweat on her,
and the grime of another battle on her brow,
but she’s kind to the librarian, if distant.
The early spring light is gaining strength, shaking off
the hangover and wooziness of what it dead, and is
soft and warm, before in it’s rage it rains fire upon us.
Rosalie sees me watching her. A little smile, A quick salute.
I smile nervously, look down, and she turns away, walks to the door.
I raise my eyes to watch her go.
Knowledge and lies, holy writ and deceiving tales, all here,
as the human heart beats in what it speaks, what it remembers.
The words our kind calling out, pulling close, whispering in our eyes.
Rosalie stands on the sidewalk, just past the doors, looking up
and down the street. I could follow after her, ask if I could join her,
be paladin and fight the demons always so near, so cruel, so patient.
My heart races, as she lingers still longer.