by Frances Raybaud
he is in Love
by that,
he means literally inside her
hearing Love
pant and gasp and giggle
seeing her smirk
feeling her like velvet
around and under him
softer than the silk sheets
on which she rides him
he could start a war like this.
her hair falls on his face when she laughs
he hears drum beats in the distance
men pound on shields
swords clanging
blood and sweat and tears
in the midst of it all
he is her steed
and it’s oddly tranquil.
“lean back, let me take command”
sometimes he wonders
how
her mind works
it’s wilder than he
he’s been tempered by years of regiments and sister’s strategy
there are rules to war
“this means war”
people say
(she mumbles it against his mouth)
war is easy to spot and explain
no one can properly define love
love is blind
she doesn’t see the blood caked into his palms when they are wrapped around her thighs
love is wild
she sends men running off cliffs
she sings with sirens
she eats hearts for lunch
love is cruel
she marries another,
but she’s back in his bed by dusk
love is petty
she fights over fruit,
and why?
she demands a mortal declare her beautiful,
as though he hasn’t told her
every night
she offers what isn’t hers
and it hits him.
anger settles.
a smirk spreads.
admiring the
many different facets of love
he thinks
she could start a war like this.
