Queen of Swords

(For Starr, a noble soul.)

VIII

He found her

among the blades—

still as stone,

hands unbound,

unsure.

Her head bowed,

dress in tatters,

she waded through the shallows

as if the water might

remember her.

What did she hear

in the stillness before breath?

Was it wings rising

or the gentle unfolding of his name

back into light?

IX

He woke late,

the dream already fading.

He feared her leaving—

selfishly.

If he let go,

would she vanish?

Would he?

The longing pressed

like a question

against his ribs—

Was it time?

If he let go,

would the stone remember

the warmth once held?

X

He wanted to hold on.

To keep the ache

close enough to name.

The swords piercing his back.

His heart comes undone.

Darkness looms—

the holding turns to ice.

Only emptiness

lies down that road.

At the bottom,

where nothing is,

he let go.

Smiling,

she had already begun

her walk beyond.

When she closed his eyes,

was it fear that left—

or sight that entered?

Did he travel to the shade

of the apple tree,

or to the safety

beneath the old chair?

XI

He walks now

into memory.

One step at a time

along the same shore.

The ache still there.

But something

has turned.

Not sharp.

Light.

A stillness.

Do cells weep

before they break

into flight?

As time slows,

the soft night,

unthreads its Starr—

he watches.