Queen of Swords

(For Starr, a noble soul.)

VIII

she found him

among the blades

still as stone,

hands unbound,

unsure.

His head bowed,

clothes in tatters,

he waded through the shallows

as if the water might

remember him.

What did he 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.

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 he closed her eyes,

was it fear that left

or sight that entered?

Did she 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.