Not This Time, Senor

She hasn't any use for me. Why should she?
My sort's come before to seize and ruin everything.
Cortez and his disgusting band, thought at first
To have been gods, destroyed a pretty city of canals,
Destroyed a way of life, replacing one with arid
Plains, the other with captivity and their ill-tempered
God, yet there she is, the past preserved, the queen
Of all the native women with her straight and noble
Nose, her deep brown eyes, her rich red lips!
I'm rapt. Two-bit conquistador, I ache to press
My breastplate to that creature in her modest
Dress. I smile. She does not smile back, aware
Of what I'd bring to her. She blankly stares,
Then turns away. She has no use for me.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 64 times
Written on 2017-12-11 at 19:22

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