Charis

Before the shield, before the tired shores clashed

with the plains, when horses’ reins were salt-dry,

not slick with blood, before the sails were lashed

tight to their masts, before she came to cry

inside our heavy door, we lived alone. Each dawn

was coal red. Your fingers cracked and bled

when you touched anything that wasn’t drawn

out of the fire. The night that we were wed,

sword-forger, love, you hammered silver in the shape

of doves flying to hang above our bed. Now war

scorches your tender hands. The furnace gapes

for metal: bronze, iron, gold––I load it with more

birch wood, all the while watching your eyes

darken like pastures, smoke-black skies.