Courage and horror stand side by side,

say the gods who 

                      dole out fates. Like      the one they give

             the massage therapist 

raped                      in her office     by a

             stranger off the street.
                              Raped face-down 

on her table, in                           dimness and 

                      lavender oil. No,         this is yours, say 

the gods,
handing off 

             a profusion of fall days      in Boston, when
                                           the boy you loved
                                           was dying. Each morning 

     on your way to see him                you cut a bouquet 

of cosmos from
the front steps of
a brownstone.
                      The other, not yours,
                                                is braver than yours, how
                                                        it ends —

                      the therapist feared she would die 

hating him and began to chant, 

                      and the panicked rapist   ran, not knowing 

                                      she was chanting the
                              Buddhist prayer
                      for compassion.         

                                      And did you sing for your enemies?          

                              No. 

The gods are busy.          

                                           The cosmos are lavender,

                              rose, tangled and 

                                                orange, 

                      replacing themselves in what 

seems hours.