Sari Krosinsky's first book, "god-chaser," is forthcoming from CW Books. She edits Fickle Muses, an online journal of mythic poetry and fiction. Her poems appear regularly in literary and genre magazines. She received a B.A. in religious studies and M.A. in creative writing from the University of New Mexico. She lives in Albuquerque, N.M., with her partner and cat.

Four Poems (April 20, 2011. Issue 27.)

British Isles, 476 CE
Another Soldier Dies

I shared a bed—or a space of naked earth—
with a soldier. Not so much a love
as a lover. Gwyn was beautiful—black hair shining
and skin smooth under the grime of battle.

He slept in the curve of my arm, warming himself
like a cat. He bathed like a cat too, twice every day
after battle and before Ushas clawed
the plain with rose-tipped fingers.

That morning, I pulled him down
into the riverbed, caught his hair
in my palm. He washed in the river
one more time. "Stay close," he said
smiling, lips wine-stained, cracked.

Battle broke under a sky caught fire—
the clouds flaming orange and pink,
pillars of smoke above.
Clap of iron like thunder
in the burning heaven, earth breaking
under boots. I stayed close.

I saw him go down, one swift stroke
under the ribs. I drove my sword under the slayer's chin
first, shattering his helmet from inside, killed five others
before I could reach Gwyn.

The sun behind the mountain paled
the sky, clouds streaking it a darker blue.
He was already gone.
Leather soaked, red rivers running
between dirt and stone.

British Isles, 474 CE
Choosing Sides

The soldiers averted their eyes
when I passed, bent their heads closer
in conversation. One man, pretty
like marble, caught my glance, said, "I'm Gwyn,"
ripped a chunk from his loaf and held it out to me.
"Kavi," I said, taking bread from his hand.

"What brings you to the end
of the world?" he asked. I answered, "War."

Gwyn had this silent laugh
that shook black locks into his eyes.
"Couldn't find one back home?"
The sounds of Saxons pitching camp
quivered the grass. "I found." The sounds
of too many feet for these Britons to handle.
"I fought on the wrong side." "Which side
was that?" "The side that won."

Flecks of green light caught
in his brown eyes, sharp as freezing breath.
"So you think we're the good guys?" he said
with that fluttering laugh. "You think
you're being noble." The sky burned blue
and empty. "Well," he said, "we can
use your hands," and caught one in his fingers.

British Isles, 476 CE
The Hunt

The Saxons slept heavy in the grass, scrubbed to gleaming
in Diana's light. Her perfume choked my nostrils,
steeped in the stench of Gwyn gone. She whispered
be a blade, cut them smooth as his Roman cheek.

The sentries never saw me. I took each from behind, slit
his throat, my dagger cutting off his last warning call.
I dragged one into the camp, flung it on a sleeping body.

The Britons woke to iron chafed from leather
at a thousand hips. It was not their fight anymore.

Diana's the kind of goddess
who would sic a man's own dogs on him
over a glimpse of her bare skin. I quaked, tethered
to her power by the weight of my sword.
Heads, ribs, arms cracked like toy soldiers.

One broke through, fell on me, pressed me
to the churned ground. I had no time for a champion,
for his wife and babes waiting across the sea.
My knife plunged into his chest. The blood washed me.

They fled. I slashed their backs 'til I fell.
Revenged, spent, the Huntress bled
from me to darkness, to dim pitted glow,
grass crushed against my cheek.

British Isles, 476 CE
The Forsworn

Mithra called to me, called me Kavi, called me
from the collapsed cave of my love. The river
ran over me, ran away red. Mithra shone through
like a shaft of light through broken stone.

"You forgot I'm watching you," he said, a thousand eyes
flashing in silver. I said, "You're mistaken.
I don't care." My fist struck the river bed, breaking skin,
spraying blood and water over Mithra's ankles.

"You are far from the stables, my drigu." As if
he thought he was still my shepherd. "You should never
have come back to war once you forsook your name."

"Am I your Cassandra, then? Cursed to oblivion
because I wouldn't bed you?" Mithra's lips twisted
in a deadly smirk. "Wouldn't you?"

I stood, staggered back, the rocks lashing my feet.
What I couldn't remember, I could imagine, that hard flesh
falling on me like a hammer, again, again,
bruising my skin to black. Love a weapon, always.