FREED VERSE

armor, you were. Iron-breasted
and better than true.
Never batted an eye, only placed your hands,
wrapped your fingers,
around my fast-beating heart.

Yours.

But your steel-plated chestplate 
proved better than I thought 
at protecting you
from my piercing swords. 

Swords wielded by a woman I once knew.
Her face was clad in a slatted mask 
with openings just wide enough 
to peek the blues
in her should-be-evergreen eyes.

Blues! That’s what we’ll call it.
It’s the 25th, and I’d be remiss
if I didn’t paint the clouds 
red,
dusted 
with the rust from the nails 
on our coffin.

You lowered your shield for me.
Dismantled its crest,
melted it down,
and laid it to rest.
But I can see now that you saved the molten iron 
and cast it into a silver bullet
still lodged 
in my aorta. 

Not even nine month’s time 
can make this silver 
turn to gold.

I still love you. 
Words I swore would never reach the page. 
But my pen moves beyond my grace 
haloed 
by the ghost 
of your embrace. 

Shining.