The armour that you once knew is translucent.
Odysseus would have given Ithaca to see
your body laid bare of a blacksmith suit.
Sacrifice of skin, bones, an orchestra
of blood and you know, everyone is a wound
waiting to be sewed cleaned. They’re slammed
doors, silence or absence, voices
too high in pitch and a hunger. You surrender
these to your lover in small sobbing sighs.
He gives you the headdress – his own
hands, tangled. You let him touch the crown
of your head with borrowed courage. He takes
your arms and legs to clothe, loosens the hair
from your collar, braids each strand, listening
to the hum of talk. He knows you
and your unmovable pain, your hopelessness,
your black-hole eyes and he gives you
the weightlessness of this second spine.
Image by Phil Shirley, used with permission.