Sometimes it’s about thunder, and sometimes it’s about the pale horses who thrash the sea into storm, and sometimes it’s about gunfire opening your heart.  Fruits smashed down to their glistening pits.  Petals that stain your wrists; wine that scours your throat.

I cannot give you soft hands, a sweet mouth, supple words.  But let me call out your name in the language of conflagration.  Let me bring you flensed fairytales and fossilized endearments.  Let me answer the percussion of your heart with the weapons that I know; let me answer the march.