Transitions

I realized that I haven’t published much of my poetry on my own Blog.  Here is a piece of my own work. 
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When Conceit Dies

Victoria Kelsey

 

I.

 

When conceit dies

I will kneel on her doorstep

grass in my mouth

and beg forgiveness.

 

II.

This is how battles end,

one adversary walks

trudging weakness

with offerings of plated humility.

 

III.

Wounds of war are long-lived,

as long as wars themselves

plus decades more;

scars old and whited-over lie

sidelong with seeping fresh cuts.

There is always fighting the day before surrender.

 

IV.

There are feasts for flies

among the dying yellow grasses.

Wives and mothers wend

from blood-mud to blood-mud

searching freckles and moles

to trace with fingertips.

By these marks they know him.

 

V. 

Faithful lovers,

having no place beside biers,

must lay themselves out on fields

of scarlet poppies, must prostrate

out of earshot of villages and clergy.

Their tears must water blossoms

still living; that their loves may die,

still holding honor,

in absence of the dying blooms

on their graves.

 

VI.

When conceit dies,

I will wipe my tears

with handfuls of dirt,

I will gather up the reeds

among the blooms,

I will crush them in my palms

until a ball of pain

becomes my breakfast.

 

VII.

I will kneel upon her step

in silence, unworthy of the knock,

and wait until the breath

of the opening door blows

the pollen from my hair.