- 16 -

In cold womb, black barking husk
I curl gold to tourniquets.

I wrap my neck, my wrists
pretty gifts
          to coax a pulse, a throb, an ache,
anything to quell the shouting

walls. Shadows, thick
the mere thought of light
cast bricks on me. Every shout snaps at me
         wolf on bone
  all fang   no tongue
no warm relief
              before the bite. I knew a supple life,

I held him in my palms, softer than snow,
he was a feather’s whisper cradling
every cloud in his small hands,
plucking their strands and smiling
as he unraveled all his presence within. 
Pure in every way.

Yet when they saw, they tore with bone and claw,
gnashed their teeth and mauled
the black skin I sheltered him with. 
The brunt of every club, the blade of every knife,
I beckoned all curses in his stead.

No darkness damns. The wicked burn
beneath the breath of doves.

Mario Stone

Grendel