I.

She drew us as birds
In her deck
Book lovers
Resting
In grasses
And
Elysian lilies
Under placid clouds

With no fear of
Heights
I sprouted into
The Tower
And he stretched
His neck gently—
A rose in the sun

II.

Our clouds grew
Dark, heavy
And growled—
Rain whipped my sides
But I stood firm—
My prominence
Attracting
Flashes of rage

Sparks sizzled
Through my walls
My embrittled rocks
Crumbling to dust,
A stone heart
Falling
Beside
A wilting
Rose

III.

Into
Scorched grass
I sank
Receding
Into
A lonely
Hole

I struck
A brick of cards
Before plunging
Too low

A tattooist’s Tarot,
His gift
From last Yule,
Born from an artist’s
Death
Finished by
A community of
The bereft

IV.

Beauty
Filling my cracks
And breaks—
In her cards
I found
His quiet voice,
His dark,
Gentle way

Armed with
Paper wings
I will recover
My heart
And stretch it
To the clouds
Rise
With flame and stone
In my feathers

Screaming in color
And light
Rattle the sky
Shatter the veil
A vivacious show,
My bright,
Torrid way

V.

But I rest first as ash
Feeding his roots
So he will rise in red
With a center of sun
Revealing to me
His worlds within

They mend my heart
And keep me alive
His thorns
Weave through
My broken spires
Like thread and needle
Binding our words

I cried for The Tower—
It was all I had known—
I tried to dispel
The tears, the rage
But they cracked me apart
Stone after stone

VI.

And I write this verse
So he will always know
I would choose this death—
Again and again—
To deny the lightning
The destruction of
The rose

So together
We entwine—
Forging a
Trident of death
And hope—

Where I am one land
And he is the Other