I am afraid of the men in boots
in my bedroom
I can hear their crunching march as they approach
across the frozen tundra
The young daughter with plump cheeks in my bed
and the pink strawberry ice cream
Are no protection
I am too weak to fight them off
They are too familiar
I know their sweat and their violation
and my own slumping acquiescence
I need a Divine Gladiator
in golden armor, strong but lithe
Perhaps the one who drives Yeshua’s Chariot
or the Buddha’s
The Victory will be swift
One whoosh of the glistening blade
and a single, wine-dark drop of blood
will signal the retreat
Of the uniformed and masked demons,
once they deliver their whispered message
Like the dispersal of smoke
when the cinnamon-rich candle
is blown out
