Low born, low caste, low class.
I appear better from afar—
I am all scars up close.
The hypnotic pulse of my kinai drums,
my magic sustained the king.
He transformed it into his own power.
He called me from my forest nightly.
He took, but never touched the sapphire center of my soul.
I find my way home to the hamlet,
sing by the crackling fire
for the weavers, goldsmiths and cobblers.
They feed me warm soup in a rough pewter bowl.
I am Pariah,
disinherited daughter of the earth.
Untouchable, but not in the way you expect.
Picture me open-legged,
carbine cradled, shiny steel rebel babydoll.
Indignant in front of some foreign flag,
beret poised just so.
Yes, of course the gun is loaded.
I oiled it, counted the ammo.
Go on fellas, push me.
Take the shot, send it to the press.
I could rob a bank, hijack a plane,
dismantle so many lives.
What I did not tell you is this.
They locked me in a closet for 25 years
Before I could stand here.
Behold, the beach-blonde suburban commando.