I

Ryan, my lovely warrior, if the world should choose tonight to fold like paper, take my hands I will not make you brave; I will make you warm Come to me with your dents and your medals and your tiredness I will build a house of spoons around you and call it sanctuary If they call you broken, tell them you are curated If they call me mad, tell them I am the best sort, keeps knives for love Sleep, then. Sleep and be foolishly human; I will watch and mend When the clocks forget us, I will still know your breath When the night protests, we will answer it with laughter like gunfire, soft and ridiculous If you ask me to stop, I will stop. If you ask me to hold, I will hold If you ask me to follow, I will follow; through mirror and midnight and toothless moons All my small wars belong to you. All my tea is for you All my broken music bows to the steady rhythm of your heart Stay. Stay as long as is possible beneath my fractured roof

My darling Ryan-mine, my warrior-beast you walked through my cradle country with a rifle like a rosary. You did not come to save me; I know this. You came because the generals pointed and the maps all lied and young men go where they are sent like letters to wrong addresses. But still. Still, my love. You breathed the same poisoned air I breathed. You tasted the same dust that coated my child-tongue. The sun that burned your neck also burned my schoolyard. We were in the same Hell, you and I, just wearing different skins. Is it madness (yes, I know about madness, I keep her as a sister) to feel grateful? That your boots touched the same soil where my aunt buried her wedding ring? That your eyes saw the same broken minarets I used to count to fall asleep? You were the wolf in my woods, and I was the impossible future waiting in the dark. Iraq made orphans of us both, in different languages. And now, now my love, we speak a third language entirely: the tongue of the ruined finding each other beautiful. Come, let us build a home from shrapnel and memory. Come, let us make love in the dialect of survivors. Love, always merciless, always small, Varvara.

When I was small and you were young and armed, you walked through streets where I hid, mouse-like, still, You did not know me, could not keep me charmed, yet somehow, strangely, served as shield from ill. For every monster that you might have been, ten worse things waited in the rubble-dark. Your presence (unknowing) kept the space between my heartbeat and my death a holy mark. I was a child. You were a stranger-guard. The Universe kept secrets in its teeth that you would hold me, years hence, scarred and hard, and I would finally feel safe beneath your killer's hands, so gentle on my face. You kept me living for this very grace.

A sigh escapes when dawn recalls his pain It lingers like a rose undone by rain In that soft breath I hear two hearts conspire A furnace fed by fear and secret fire His eyes grow green, like moss on ancient stone He is my tired knight, and I his throne

Thy green eyes, twin lanterns in night's dread hall, Guide my lost soul, lest into shadows I fall.

Ryan, the veteran so tough and lean, Has seen things ghastly, unspeakably mean. Yet for me, a phantom child in dread He weaves safe havens within his head.

The angry scar upon thine arm, I see, A dreadful map that leads thee back to me.

You guarded me before you knew my name, Through smoke and scream and shattered city stone. My silent knight in unforgiving flame. I drew your face inside my fractured game A cardboard cutout, slightly torn, alone You guarded me before you knew my name. The snipers blinked. The children played the same Old games of "hide" where no one gets to moan. My silent knight in unforgiving flame. You never heard me whisper through the rain, Or saw me trace your boots upon the throne Of rubble where I carved your hidden name. Now here you sleep, still scarred, still strangely sane My monster muse, my marrow, marrow bone. You guarded me before you knew my name, My silent knight in unforgiving flame.

Ezra, my little changeling boy, Your father's hands are worn and coy. He builds you castles out of sand, While holding back the rising land. You don't know the wars he's fought, The nights he's watched the stars, all shot, With eyes like Ryan's, green, sharp, and deep That see the monsters lying asleep. But when he looks at you, my dear, The warrior man's mask falls, pure and clear. A tenderness, a fragile light, That makes the darkness shrink from sight. Sleep, little Ezra. Safe you are, Guarded by a warrior's heart.

He came like thunder in a girl's despair, A combat silhouette against my night. Before I knew his name or smelled the smoke He stood, a barrier of rifle and regret Cradling my tremors As if they were newborn birds. He said, "Fear not, porcelain dove," And I believed a man could be both sword and cradle.

Sometimes, I feel my seams are coming undone. The stuffing, which is mostly bad memories and spiders, threatens to spill out onto the floor. My button eyes go loose. My smile, stitched on with crimson thread, begins to droop. And you, my gentle, war-torn man, you fetch a needle. You sew me back together again. Your stitches are clumsy. But they hold.

My darling, a father so grim, Is filled up with dread to the brim. He slays all my monsters, My gruesome impostors, So I keep all the nightmares for him.

Razor-smile, cold steel, You ended things in hell Now you end my fear.

You have your war, I have my head, Let's make a home here for the dread.

Your tired heart, it beats a steady tune. The spiders in my skull, they cease their crawl. I live my life by the exhausted moon. The hatter's clocks spin madly past all noon. My looking-glass waits for my sense to fall. Your tired heart, it beats a steady tune. You come to me, a melancholic boon, And answer when my phantom playmates call. I live my life by the exhausted moon. They say my sanity was lost too soon, A pretty ribbon tangled in a squall. Your tired heart, it beats a steady tune. With you beside me, whispering a croon Of battles won behind a broken wall, I live my life by the exhausted moon. The world outside is just a mad cartoon. You are the anchor that survives it all. Your tired heart, it beats a steady tune. I live my life by the exhausted moon.

You wear your trauma like a cloak, my love, Of gunpowder, and grit, and solemn sighs. It fits you better than a silken glove, And hides the lovely sorrow in your eyes.

Your eyes don't flinch when I begin to fray. They are two anchors in a frantic sea. You watch the colors of my soul decay. You just stay here, and watch what's left of me. They are two anchors in a frantic sea, While all the others run and hide their face. You just stay here, and watch what's left of me. You find a splintered, but a worthy grace. While all the others run and hide their face, You watch the colors of my soul decay. You find a splintered, but a worthy grace, Your eyes don't flinch when I begin to fray.

Old maps of fighting, your knuckles are the mountains. Safe place to get lost.

This life is a chessboard, you see. Everyone told me I was just a pawn. Frilly, breakable, and sent to the front. But you. You looked at me and saw a Queen. The kind that moves in any direction she pleases, and leaves a trail of little red bodies. My darling King, stay behind me. I will keep you safe.

My mind's a maze of malice and of thread, Of grinning cats and things that should be dead. But in your arms, the corridors feel wide, A safe, quiet place for broken dolls to hide.

Everyone looks at me and sees a locked box. Pretty. Porcelain. But shut up tight. They rattle me, poke at my keyhole, and declare me broken when I don't spring open. You didn't do that. You just sat with the box. You said, "I have secrets, too." And my darling Ryan, that was the key. It was always the key.