Jacqueline West

She kept her eyes closed

as they led her up the stairs

one guiding hand on either elbow

but against bare feet she could still feel

the slick trails, dried edges flaking into rust.

She did not open them

when they reached the dais,

nor when she was placed flat

on the slab, but sensed through her spine

where her thin shift stuck to the stone

the others who had come and gone before.

Shadows played on her shut eyelids

against the dance of torchlight;

a crowd of men swelled and shrank,

tossing petals on her hair.

Hands arranged the hem of her gown.

She was a child again,

and there was love in the last details.

She looked up just to see the blade

before its spark came down,

slicing her uncertainty,

shearing through the case.

She was special.

She was chosen.

Her blood could save them all.