Ah Judith, has the rain begun to fall
upon our parched and broken land? And how
quickly will the fallow fields heed its call,
yielding sweetness to the once disused plough?
My basket’s full of gold and amber hues
which roll and shift on crimson beads that run.
Your little hand is shaking dear; amuse
yourself with sweeter thoughts of what you’ve done,
after you clean yourself and take a breath.
It was not your fault that Holofernes chose
to rape our land, to sow discord and death.
No. You were mighty as the new sprung rose:
Both beauty and the thorn emerged from bud
to leave his head here, lying limp in blood.
god america i 