2 September 2003 | Vol. 3, No. 3
St. Helena
Another beetle with a crushed carapace,
thin-lipped, you argued with your jailer—
won every time.
The sun hit the water;
a crowd followed its moving light:
how they hated you, how they loved you.
Josephine, gone, your mother dead,
only symphonies batoned your small splendor.
At least there was no snow.
What matter if your men's boots weren't sturdy,
their mittens eaten off that Russian winter?
Though you imagined godhead,
Napoleon, your biographers were cruel.
I thought you should know.
I thought you should know.
About the author:
Born and raised in Seattle, Teresa now lives in eastern Washington with her husband. During the past three years, she has had over 200 poems published in over 50 magazines online and in print. She was nominated for a Pushcart in 1999 by the Melic Review. You can reach her at whiteheart_1998@yahoo.com.
For further reading:
See the complete list of work by Teresa White at 42opus. Browse the contents of 42opus Vol. 3, No. 3, where "St. Helena" ran on September 2, 2003. List other work with these same labels: poetry.
