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Song of a Warrior’s Bride

He counts on me for beauty:
His eyes blurred by bloody spurts of war,
Scarred by deadly blasts of bone
And tissue, his vision marred
By chunks of men that shook him down
Into the oozing mud of sorrow,
And unscrewed the sockets of his soul, 
Blasting windows that once shone luminous,
Into dark pools of madness, mocking 
The watch he had to keep that night. 
 
He stopped his ears against
The final cries of men turned babes,
Moaning for mama or a medic,
Gasping for a hand upon their head,
As prayers and curses were sucked
From bodies by the piercing blows
Of guns, while rockets puked
Hellish flames that blotted 
Out the stars, until darkness
Swelled into a symphony of pain,
And his heart choked with agonies 
He could not stop to heal.

I have learned to fasten his gaze
With the soft gauze of understanding, 
A fabric thrown across the room,
Rich with memories between us,
Like rose petals sweetening the air.
I can still delight his eyes and lure him
From the tangled jungle pits he digs
And show him patterns of new mercies,
That reveals the hidden weaver of our days,
The keeper of our steps upon this turf					
Of life, turned gentler now.

I drape and wrap, twist and thread
My warless arms around him,
Still fingering the loom of prayer.
Murmuring vows over his embattled brow,
I draw him underneath our tent, pitched 
In the heat of hard fought love.

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