Sheathe

 

Clever was he. 

  More clever than can be. 

  For even the eyes of a seer, 

   Still victim and wounded...

  Would fall to a mask 

    Of what she needed in him to see. 

But pressed against there, 

  Turned in after prayer, 

     Like a red cloak I felt to a wolf's chest; 

        Ready to engorge. 

 He would beseech me, 

  A relic of continual bond, 

   Trauma ridden,  

Playing in me a game of which no rules I'd been given. 

Slanted, the tongues would deflect and commerce in patterns 

   that led to what is. 

and in his arms, I did not feel safe...

  Because what was, a temporary fashion, 

    Molded to undo, 

What had long been undone. 

     

I shielded myself, 

   Allowing the breaths in whimpers to release against his warm flesh. 

  Soaking in his apology; 

Knowing still, it had no foundation. 

A magnetic sheath, 

  Repelling me from him 

     Lay between us. 

I did not believe his apology, although I knew he meant it. 

Yet, I yielded to warm skin against my sobbing face, 

  

and took it in, 

   so I had a place to heal.

So if even for only that moment alone, 

  We could heal as one;

 as any amount of healing will do.