“Dying by the Sword”

God does Silence so well,
steady and level.
I have my answer now;
no bright angel will be bringing me mercy.
My only stars are for wishing;
My stars give no bearings.
“This” is my sad heart’s doing
and I am on my own. 
I don’t dare speak out loud
any dreams for us. 
Superstition holds my tongue: 
threatens me with tongs
and pliers if I don’t comply. 
I forged this sword by myself,
strengthened it with my lack: 
Sharpened and double edged it out of desperation and ache. 
See how it fits your hand?  Try its weight.
I want you to grow comfortable and at ease
with the feel and swing. 
It was designed
with you in mind.
I know that you will fall me with it someday, sudden and unexpected. 
It will be a quiet Sunday afternoon and for no apparent reason. 
Surprise will rise up between us like a gulf,
and you apologize again
and again,
rubbing my hair like a cast off pet.
I forgive in advance. 
I bleed in advance. 
My fate is certain.
This painful anticipation
is the worst of the wounds.
You run me through as gentle as possible:
leaning me on the sofa
and getting me a pillow.
Fatality winks at me
from the corner of every room I breathe,
all friendly,
like she only
wants to talk or share a drink.  
She innocently pats the seat next to her for me to come and sit. 
“Let us chat.” she says.
She knows my name.
In spite of all that I see so well,
I run toward you anyway.