#sestina

Sun pecking skin. Petticoats swishing—the Hopewell dances upon the sea. You disembark; beech heels clacking against oak.

The chorus of livestock. Yeomen baying. A child's jaw slackening at ‘The New World'. You inhale deeply; eyes fluttering—the tang of salt upon your lips.

“For ye.” His voice a caress amidst the tempest—lids snap open. “A comely damsel deserves beautiful posies.” Heat blooms.

“Thank ye.” Fingers brush flesh.

“I’m Steven.” A cough. Flaxen locks sway with each rasp. “H—” His throat clears. “He’s James.” Lips twitch. Eyes crinkle. Your nose skims a silky rose.

As always—you remember. Your loves forget. Vines entwine—the memory loops; transcending time.

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Time is without death... A shadow upon the sun dial; click-click-click—you wind granddaddy’s pocket watch... Death is the fulfilment of time.

Laughter—yeomen in a merry pin. Music—Goodman Banner gaily plays the fiddle. Blue adorns trees. “A country dance is an unseasonable revel. Since the Boston massacre, Pa believes war is inevitable.” Natalya toys with a ribbon waving against the oak.

“What cheer, cousin?” You flinch; palm covering your bosom. Cool metal—the pendant lying upon your breast. A beautiful gold rose.

“Pray, excuse me, cousin. To affright you was not my intent.” Clint withdraws a step. Fingers tapping the flap of his cocked hat. “My good friends simply wish for an introduction. May I present Captain Rogers. Sergeant Barnes.” He presses a fingertip against twitching lips.

Parchment crinkling—a snap of linen. Captain Rogers tugs at his hunting shirt; Sergeant Barnes cups your palm. Warmth; lips graze flesh.

“We hope for the pleasure of your company this evening.” James murmurs. —Life anew. Souls eternally bound. Once again, love blooms.

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“How do you do, dearest?” You haste; foot catching upon a hoop. Huffing. “This crinoline cage is of such sizeable girth, I fear I shan't fit through your parlour door.” The apples of Wanda's cheeks rise. She nods towards two sirs taking tea upon the veranda. Warmth blooms.

Heat—the whisper of breath. “Father's business partners. Yesterday's report in ‘The Herald’— Oh, it’s terrible.” She clasps your wrist. “Railroad stock values are declining. I dread—” Her voice breaks. Fingers squeeze tighter. “Losing the estate is simply a question of time.”

“Oh, sister.” You inhale sharply; corset biting your ribs. “The Mormon Rebellion destroys us all. Papa too, is facing bankruptcy.” Head shaking. “We must stem the tide together.” You sweep a glove-clad thumb beneath her eye; purple smudges crisp upon pale flesh.

Pebbles crunch; footfalls along the gravel pathway. “My dear child. Darling goddaughter.” He bows. “Pray join us.” Elbow linking Wanda’s—you follow. His rustic cane scritching stone—a musical melody of gravel dancing with oak.

Step. Step. Step. Lungs constricting; eyes drifting shut… Thrum. Thrum. Thrum—Stevie’s heart flutters beneath your ear. Click. Click. Click—James maps your jaw with gentle lips…

An introduction; cheeks flush. The gentlemen bow; warmth blossoms. You curtsy; butterfly wings ripple within the belly. Breath hitches—a hint of their Eau de Cologne, damask rose.

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Cutlery clanking against porcelain. “Hey!” Fingers snake your wrist. “We only serve payin’ customers. If table two keeps ordering dog soup, get rid.” A shove; you wince—the countertop jarring your spine. Children squeal—their chubby legs kicking chrome, the stools a bright rose.

Grasping a rag—knuckles translucent—you scrub the bar top; hips jerking. “I have their order, sir. Lemonade—” Fingering the coins in your apron pocket. “And two slices of war cake. Oh—” The cloth stills. “We should alter the menu. War cake, depression cake—it dampens one’s spirits. I use orange blossoms in the mix, so why not call it ‘orange blooms’.”

“Here’s an idea.” His finger jabs your breast. “I pay ya for bakin’.” He snatches up the rag. “And for waitressin’. Do ya job. And stop lettin’ people use my business as a damn soup kitchen.” A sting. Eyes watering—the cloth whips your flesh. “Now, get servin’, and zip ya lips.”

Hands yank on the boss’ shirt collar—the linen tawny with sweat stains. “A slice of ‘orange blooms’ sounds mouthwatering, doesn’t it, Stevie?” A spluttering cough; the boss’ jowls turning puce. “Offer the young lady an apology, and I won’t toss you into the trash cans out back… This time.”

The aging wood stove groans. Whoosh—your breath hitches. Hiss—the boss stutters an apology. Crackle—fingertips lightly graze your elbow. Pop—a chestful of the woodsy aroma, oak…

Burnt orange—embers winking. Snap; Steve drops an oak log into the hearth. Shadows dancing upon flesh; your fingers sketch patterns along smooth skin. Until… Their hands clasp yours. The flutter of warm breath in your ear—Steve… “Miss, are you all right?” You blink slowly. Once. Twice. “Miss. Do we— Have we met before?” Lips twitch. Cheeks lift. Flesh skims flesh.

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A snowy handkerchief—sopping with tears. Two sheets of acidic paper; the contents bubbling within your throat—a sob tears through you. “D-damn this war.” Hands crumple the yellow telegrams; another rip, more creases. The weight of its words heavy against flesh.

Tossing the papers—a light thunk—they ricochet upon checkerboard flooring. Smash. An earthenware cup—full with sweet tea—follows. Golden droplets trace the wall… Bucky’s thumbs blot the tears mapping your cheeks. “It’s my duty. Oh, please don’t cry, my beautiful rose.”

Hands reach out. Pit-a-pat—his heart beneath your palm. “How can I not cry?” A scoff—razor-sharp—bursts out. “Steve’s ‘Four-F’ status doesn’t deter him. The army’ll take him eventually, too. A-and—” An ache; the lump in your throat growing bigger. “S-soon all will remain of us is a worn photograph set in oak...”

Three rhythmic raps upon oak. A cry; palm clutching your breast. Tick-tock—a fourth knock. “Mrs. Rogers?” Feet shuffle. The crystal doorknob crisp within your grasp; timber groans... A stranger tips his bowler hat. “Hello, Mrs. Rogers.” Clearing his throat. “For you.” Eyes red, he proffers a bouquet of posies. “Cap ‘n’ Bucky always spoke of your love for wildflowers, so I thought I’d pick these blooms.”

“Thank. You—” A beautiful burst of color. Plum—the fruit preserve you often cook for Bucky. Tink. Tink. His spoon scraping the jar clean. Crimson—the roses Steve always gifts you. Kisses upon a soft jaw; his cheeks flushing. Gold—your trinity wedding ring; a band symbolizing each of you. You’ll meet them again… A sob. In time.

You press the flowers against your heart. Teardrops trailing along satiny petals. “Oh. To hell with propriety.” Arms—warm, sturdy—encircle you. “Name’s Timothy Dugan.” He gently rocks you. To. Fro. “But as your Cap ‘n’ Bucky’s girl, you call me ‘Dum Dum’. We’re gonna watch out for you now. Howling Commandos look after their own.” Sinking into the embrace; a keening cry tears past your lips.

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Dry leaves rustling—the flutter of pages. Book heavy in your palm—flesh grazes the spine; binding craggy with creases… Schliff—Bucky turns the page. Breathing life into Tolkien; his chest thrums beneath yours… The hum of the shopkeeper’s bell. “Welcome to ‘Hearts of O’—” A broken laugh—eyes welling. The book slips; fingers press against your lips.

“How?” His voice—no longer thin, but resonant. “Why?” His jaw—once soft, now chiseled—locks. “We thought—” Head shaking. “Is it truly you?” Mouth dry; you nod. “Then… Everything else is neither here nor there.” One blink; footsteps—two sets. Two blinks—warm skin, cool metal. A third blink—weightless in their arms; flesh caresses flesh.

“Our story began over a millennia ago. In the hub of Rome.” Palms cup their cheeks; one smooth, the other bristly. “Though together—peace within the noise. Until…” The pungent stench of rotting corpses… Your belly lurches. “The Eclipse Plague.” Eyes squeeze shut… Shouts on your heels. “Scelesta—wicked woman. Impura—unclean. Luppiter te disperdāt—may Jupiter utterly destroy you.” Lungs bursting; you run… Pressure upon your crown—Bucky’s chin. “With the plague claiming so many, Roma set about searching for scapegoats.” A sob. “Such stolen time.”

Tick. Tick. Tick. Chests rising, falling—with each silent breath. “You fought for us…” Flagellorum sibilus—whips whistle. Thwack—metal tips bite gentle flesh… “Crimson wept upon linen...” Fingers slip beyond your grasp—Steven. A body slumps against you—Bucky… “My final breath; I clung onto our necklace—the garland of roses.”

“Rose—” Metal cooling your hot cheek; you lean into the delicate touch. “Always our beautiful rose.” Your hair fluttering; Bucky utters a broken chuff. “Flashes. Fragments Hydra couldn’t erase. The Althing—woolen cloaks with fur linings… Sunlight kissing our skin at a country jig…” His gaze shifts. “We found her, Stevie.” Lips peck your temple. “And she always blooms.”

Steve’s arms—not willowy, but broad—tighten. The hug—stalwart as always. “This bookstore—the name. It’s us, isn’t it?” You nod. His mouth claims Bucky’s… Then yours. Lips still soft. Woodsy scent—home. His whisper drifts through the hush. “‘Hearts of Oak’.”

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A gentle sigh—time breathes… Scritch—graphite brushes paper. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Silence—Steve’s pencil stills; Bucky’s brow puckers. “I can’t steer myself into your path. I’ve gotta trust it’ll happen organically—as fate intends.” Fingers interlace. Click—your lips graze Steve’s knuckles. A chill; mouth tingling—a kiss upon Bucky’s steel arm. “There’s beauty in trusting it, isn’t there?”

“I guess. Though—” Bed sheets rustling. A hint of oak—Bucky nuzzling your cheek. “I’m certain Stevie will agree, this curve—” Fingertips—featherlight—flutter along your hip; a squeal of laughter. You squirm. “Is where the true beauty lies. Whaddya say, Cap?” The prickle of whiskers; Bucky pressing kisses against your flesh.

Sleep for which I’ve fallen, nodding; rock is etched in darkness: grave,  

There I lay beside best-bedroll; house columns drip a-patter.

Shaking off a strange sensation: gleaming shapes, recurring, rising—

Hopes, my longing: grasp the moving markings on the walls so still.

Daytime brings the moving figures; figures absent in the gloom—

Now as brightness glosses rock; the shrieking sheep-herd comes a-looming.

“‘Least I know it is a sheep-herd,” said my friend as shapes were looming—

Sheep-herds are but shrieking, shifting, shapes, or marks of day: not grave.

Surely speaking truth—my interest piquing; scorning nighttime gloom.

Friends are knowing unlike I am, for often most ne’er witting patter—

Then I heard a hooting holler, sheep-herd moves—then halts a-still. 

Shine-lit shackles, shackled hands; black-spotted shape—or sheep-herd rising.   

Dearest friend asleep by wall, his mind enlightened; the shadows rising—

Peering at the gleaming figures; friend’s so-sudden hush a-looming.

While spots move, a horrid shrieking bursts behind me, tempts me to un-still—

Knowing sheep-herd ne’er so rowdy; solemn gaze a stoning grave,

Bronze-safe shackles clanking; jolting, shifting—turning, midst the patter, 

Curious creature glares upon me, piercing. Muffled mind a-gloom.

Soaring high near corner wall; what horror in my gloom!

Talons reaching, wide-eyed screeching; movement mirrors precious sheep-herd’s rising—

Blinding light behind its golden eyes; I yell to friend amidst the patter,

He, awoken, tracks the sheep-herd: shadows shift as owl threatens, looming,

Truly sheep-herd’s truth was groundless. I sprint past owl, thoughts a-grave.

No-longer home behind me; piercing light, a sapphire sky ne’er still. 

Striking true as dazzling daytime, cave is cloaked in darkness still,

Winged-white doves and owl flutter; heart in melancholy gloom—

For mirage of shackles, fallen, when I left the early grave,

Friend is but the sheep-herd. Sullen owl; no wonder is a-rising,

Sparkle glosses trees while shadows shroud his cave, the dreary bruise a-looming—

Peace: I’ve reached, for: brightened mind and lightened heart are forevermore a-patter.

Still, friend’s heart remains too-certain—blinded, while my gleaming sun is rising, 

Gloom in new-found evermore: the cave—the cage remains a-looming, 

1. estates general

put on the black, and hide beneath the robes. the mannerisms, the words

of a provincial lawyer. so are they all, all honorable men, all men of virtue

and conviction - who would be better to declare the right

to shape what only in your visions had claimed the name of a republic.

the heady mix of pride with just a hint of terror

that the people listened, when you called them free.

2. camille | palais-royal

ready to die, he says, as long as he is free

you could've placed the emphases, the gaps between his words

yourself. the lilting accent, the clarity that strikes the terror

in your heart. what sacrifice would gods demand of you, would virtue

be sufficient? he'd scoff at it and rush ahead, and gladly die for his republic

not knowing what it cost you to admit that it would be his right.

3. convention

"now i demand to speak!" the first, inalienable right

of man and citizen. the declaration calls him free,

the bread gets more expensive by the day. they say that a republic

runs on wheat and armies, turns on a smattering of words

as if to disregard the dedication and the virtue

that makes you catch aflame while others shade their eyes in terror.

4. committee of public safety

the crowds have gleefully declared the terror

to be the order of the day. the nights by right

belong to the committee. each member grasping for a virtue

to hold on, to stay afloat in tides of war, where only death is free,

and life is cheap, and treachery creeps in, and you stand up and search for words,

and for a moment, the room is flooded with the light of the republic.

5. camille | germinal

it is a fragile and a precious thing, the way he speaks of this republic

and doesn't cower, though his voice may break in terror,

though he must know he's been condemned by words

alone - drowned out by taunts, by orders, by a verdict. it is a virtue

of its own, this stubbornness. and on the scaffold, he lets his tears fall free,

while you get dressed in mourning. for him, for you, for doing what you knew was right.

6. thermidor

it was so natural to add resistance to oppression as the right

of every citizen. no half-measures and no back-alley deals for your republic.

and when they drag you out, denounce you for a tyrant, you know that they are free

to speak their minds. this victory will not be counted while the terror

grows in retelling. it's stoic to accept one's fate, they say, it is a kind of virtue.

you tried to harness it instead, and wonder if you failed, if at the end there's nothing left but words.

7. coda: dawn

it rises with the beauty of the banners and the irrevocable terror

of the dawn. your revolution turned into a symbol, into a right