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.