Sestina

He carries all his wars upon his skin, A topography of what the metal did. Each silver line tells a forgotten story, A hieroglyph carved down to the calm of bone. He is a sacred, silent, human map, And in his presence all my thoughts grow quiet. My chattering brain grows blessedly quiet When I trace the branching rivers of his skin. The world can keep its safe and paper map; I'll navigate the truth of what the metal did. His body is a book bound in old bone, And every scar I read is my favorite story. He never speaks aloud the ugliest story, But in the night his breathing isn't quiet. I lay my ear against his cage of bone And feel the tremors move beneath his skin, A memory of the screaming, angry metal. He is a country, and I know this map. My fingers travel his beloved map, To learn by heart this melancholy story. I kiss the places where the jagged metal Tore through the noise and left a lasting quiet. They tried to erase me from my own small skin, But he has shown me how to love the bone. I am a doll of breakable, thin bone, But he, my warrior, is a living map Of strength that settled deep inside the skin. He has survived his own conclusive story. That strength begets a strangely gentle quiet, A softness that belies the brutal metal. My love for him is not fragile, but metal, Annealed and forged and welded to the bone. And when my headscreams are anything but quiet, He lays his hand, a heavy, living map, Across my back, and ends that frantic story, And there is only safety, and his skin. The tale of skin becomes a different story. This quiet map, stronger than any metal, Is etched on bone and holds me in its quiet.