Daughter Warrior 2.0

A princess

must orient

contrite. Even if.

Her bride’s choice, her swayam-

vara, is interrupted

by heist or landgrab.

Whatever. Never recovers.

She’s sent from

place to place. No invoice.

No good

to any father

or proper amour, but otherwise fit and fine.

Itinerant isthmus in a frock,

a roving celibate.

Maybe better to be stuck with someone.

So she takes a little hike

into the woods.

Fasts until she’s pure

and communes with the fluid

deities. Is granted

a boon, for sure,

a superior destiny,

after another thousand moons

of austerities.

Whereby, recusing herself

from the estranged

landmass altogether,

she erupts into flame,

briefly flicks

out of spacetime,

then skids into

another womb,

a majestic gate,

next door to the original horror,

where some ultra-rich father

awaits

the birth of a champion

to avenge the petty

squabbles of his estate.

The father is somewhat thrilled

to score a warrior

kid with actual skills,

though the weird boy just can’t relate

to the father’s boring rants and tirades

against other neighboring fools.

The father is just a tool

to provide righteous cover and fuel

for the warrior’s mighty self-will

to gut the system from within,

to gut a system that would let

a princess spin

out from the proper order

of things

without remedy or recourse

in an age when warriors rule,

in an age when warriors eviscerate

the earth.

Even if a princess can only curse,

through the epigenetic

vortex

of rebirth,

she can nurse her hurt

to prophecy:

Migrate, torrential groin,