IV

Night-bloom grenade pops, confetti of burning moths you shield my small grin. I pocket the brightest wing to mend the hole in your song.

Old wolf, your sigh unwinds a spool of powder-smoke. I knit the thread round brittle moons for you.

Lay down thy helm upon my knees, let spiders lace it with repose; Their webs know all your victories. Lay down thy helm upon my knees, my lullabies are lock-pick keys for armored dreams that never close. Lay down thy helm upon my knees let spiders lace it with repose.

Night inks your profile upon the ceiling; I trace it with a moth-wing, label every scar a constellation. Sleep, world-weary map. I shall navigate you at dawn.

Turn the key, beloved, hear the ballerina limp. She pirouettes upon one copper nail, singing "click-clack, click-clack, he is safe, he is safe." I keep the tune in my throat like a baby serpent, ready to hiss away any waking mortar.

orange-rust-flashback / purple-bruise-twilight / silver-bayonet-moon your sighs tumble through my mind's prism fractals of warbird feathers, each shard spelling: stay.

1 spent .223 cartridge turned into a wishbone. 3 lullabies sung backward to reverse detonation. 7 spiders knitting socks for your frostbit toes. 1 map of Fallujah redrawn as a hopscotch grid. 4 teaspoons of gunpowder stirred into cocoa. 12 kisses, each stamped with a different war-medal design. ∞ promises that I shall never salute you, only hug.

War ends / dreams begin / hush forward / love marches backward / hush begin / dreams end / war.

Dear Ryan-Beloved Exhaustion, The clocks are misbehaving again; they hop like rabbits that swallowed grenades. I told them I was busy nursing your old thunder, but they rattled their bones and insisted upon noon. Varvara does not bow to noon. A child's logic is superior: if we hide beneath the tea-table, time cannot find us, and neither can the ache with bad shoes. If you come home heavy, I'll siphon the weight with my locket; it has teeth for that. If you come home light, I'll sew stones in your pockets so you don't float away. If you don't come home-don't. That is not a story I allow in this house. I remain your razor-sweet steward.

I am your borrowed quiet, Ryan mine, a pocket where the mortars come to play. I speak to fear in cursive, very fine I am your borrowed quiet, Ryan mine. My ribbon-voice turns razors into twine, the hospitals inside your ribs obey. I am your borrowed quiet, Ryan mine, a pocket where the mortars come to play.