❝ He will not come as a rush of wings
or a torrential downpour.
He will not be vast or terrible
or cold and calm as a night without stars
ready to swallow you whole
and kiss you full of darkness.
He will be nothing you ever wrote poetry about.
You will have learned to lace yourself
into resolve by the time he meets you,
miles from violence.
You will come seeking a riot,
thirsty for a love like war,
but he will speak only the language of peace treaties,
and his touch will be a ceasefire,
creeping over your skin
like refugees across borders.
He will unravel all the cruelty from your tongue,
unpin the hemlock from your hair,
and you, dear girl, will let him.
He will start brewing kettles
and cleaning out closets in your heart,
and when he dusts the ash from your arsonist’s coat,
folds it up,
and stows it away on the highest shelf,
you will remember what sweetness
and light taste like,
and that will work wonders.