Camlann

Straight to the battle it was

my finger that marked the place

in the Idylls and gravely

she presented the sword of glass

so that he might put an end

to the imposter—to me, pretending—

and thus I would save her innocents.

 

Dreamlike it made sense, the stench

of sand-salt and blood, the drip of fear

and fog. The memory of Thorn

(You can’t trust her) and my

heedless desire to have her anyway

tell me I could be great.

 

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