Beatrix

How long, time
at all measurable in this state,
had she pressed forward?

She was a child, once—a girl
with a vague concept
of her importance—but now,
now that everyone she knew
is in the past, now
it is clear: her path
winds broken, hard,
lit by an indomitable
will to regain her life.

In her reflection—
the end of a long
blade propped in
sand, striking
its length, whetstone
in palm, sparks
flying and dying
as quickly as
they were born—
in her reflection
something cold
forged, hard
in her skin, eyes
sharp with fear.