Sara Blake
Battlement
Poem

It could have been
an invitation,
but best to pace circles
with a flat face
in stoic formation.
Wiser to stage a standoff
to be won,
A siege of spirits to find out
who will begin
with the upper hand
and end with it too.
Don’t they call this
something else?
Something more tender.
But that’s the
trouble with glances
over your trench,
and so easy to give
away your soft spots
before you’ve seen
the white flag.