Meditation on a Lady

By Pat Nussman

Art by Liz


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Lady, you are incredible.
More rare that spice, more remarkable than a Sith.
Well, now, you'd have to be, wouldn't you?
Remarkable, I mean, to keep me awake now--
Battered and bruised as I am, thanks to my 'friend'--
To keep me sitting up just to watch you sleep.
Remarkable, too--damn it all, woman!--to capture me,
To take by storm this near-impervious, this armored heart.
          Not that I mean to brag.
But, Leia, you know that I've had plenty of women;
Many ladies have lain in these arms before you.
My natural place is in the jousts of Love,
As yours is the less gentle battleground of Revolution.
How strange, how rare then, that you, my Lady,
Knowing nothing of these lusty sports, all ignorance,
Should wound this hardened warrior so skillfully, so fatally.
          Somehow, it just doesn't seem right.
And why? What drew me to you since that first meeting?
Sharp as you were, flushed with anger, not sweet passion.
"Into the garbage chute, flyboy," you snapped.
It was hardly a greeting to inspire devotion.
I told the kid that I was between killing you or liking you;
No mediocre emotions where Her Worshipfulness is concerned.
Without gesture, without words, indeed with your disdain.
And despite my own misgivings ("A princess and a guy like me?")
          Can't say I understand it.
detentioncell Is it because you are a lady all of fire and spirit,
Strong to stand up to these troublesome times?
Yeah, I like that; it appeals to something the same in me,
But yet...I love those moments, too, when
You are not steel, but clay, and that softness is for me,
Only for me, this roustabout petty smuggler.
And then, my Leia, you're so pliable, so gently
Yielding in my arms...
Huh, better stop right there, flyboy, or you'll get carried away,
And a detention cell ain't exactly the best place for lovemaking.
     Especially with Chewie right here beside us.
Yeah, it would be easy to be carried away by you, lady.
And never to leave your slim arms again.
Who would have believed you'd have so much fire,
'Neath that ice; as though Tatooine had come to Hoth.
But still, it wasn't the fire that drew me;
I'd seen plenty of that elsewhere.
It was everything about you, all of you.
The strengths, magnificent, and the weaknesses you strive to hide,
But which I see with the eyes of love.
Love? Shit! Guess I've said it now, and it didn't choke me,
I'll even say it again, since you're still asleep:
I love you, Leia, my lady of the Rebels, lady of my heart.
And you love me, too; don't try to deny it.
I know. I've got eyes in my head.
We're too much alike for you to disguise that soft light
In your eyes, those careful movements which bespeak love;
Look, I have them, too, those symptoms of terminal passion.
Guess we're both caught, then, no help for it, either.
Except maybe to hope we both live long enough to give this romance
That traditional happy ending so beloved by holofilm writers.
Right now, though, I'll just take you into this smuggler's arms,
So to hold you close, safe, warm through the too-short Bespin night,
And I will, perchance, dare,
          For the first time in my unnumbered, wandering years,
                    To dream...


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