for years the war sleeps next to me holds me tight in his sleep
I’ve died fifteen hundred nights at least
early mornings he makes coffee strong and sweet
wears cufflinks and likes to parade around in high heels
I share my salty wine and dreams with him with abandon
he flaunts his cigarette holder and turquoise fingers
drinks from golden glassware fine dines with silver spoons
leans on the doorframe and leers from his gleaming khol eyes
in the dead of night he plots and maps his offensive
I see his ambitious plans and instantly cut off my tongue
soft voices fatten the arsenal in his body
he spins words into strands of steel in his genteel hands
I plant fragrant jasmine around my throat as a fence
with silver string I embroider armor around my soft arms
wild horses gallop down the brown flanks of my back
I build a field hospital in the shadow of my breasts
I followed the rules of war and waited for battle like a fool
at dawn he wakes me and ushers me down the stairs to the kitchen
stands quiet at my back and stabs a hefty butcher’s knife between my ribs
the poison and massive victory spread across my torso
crimson-soft he whispers in my hair
“look the first snow”
the count of casualties and the digging may begin
