I feel his heat in the curl of bone.

He makes me wish for privacy
to tender embers which I keep
covered now with Woden's ash
as if I had confessed, atoned,
for the dreams that come to me
yearning that I could find home--
flanked by my books
I make a fort
weaving branches with my hair
gathering the stones they throw
and pack them sturdy with the dirt
that they spew from wretched tongues
disguised to dignity as verse
as I chant transformatives
superlatives offset the curse
encircling the hearth with burst
remnants of the red clay stone
as he slowly climbs the steppe
to claim as his
the purple throne--

"My King, My King"

I'll wash his feet
and pray I'll feel
the sacred oil
upon my head in sanctity:

the silence

is

the wedding vow...

I feel him in the curl of bone--

as I practice me, my braids.

* * *

thanks to Bobk, for the writing prompt