Blood and flame,
quiet sparks, this wooden bed.
Gods know the quickening —
the eye, the hand, the wrist, wrapped in fine skin.Flesh marks tracing bled pattern,
soft heathen.
Horns and raven’s wings — cut me in silver.Earth.
Spread me with axes and shields,
all that fair and fierce longing.Over and under, over and under,
weave braids and veins
and cut the heart, fighter.
A shield born of ash and mist.
Touch me again.
