Guardian

Poetry / Fantasy, Surreal

My angel, my haunt.

She guards with a keen stare.

Her workshop glows in a corner of my heart.

Out of the corner of her eye,

She watches me.

I hear her scoff as I shuffle up to the door.

I pay her visits, now and again,

Not often enough.

She does not wait for me,

Though she knows

I will come.

Mostly, I flounder far below her,

With thoughts and words

And keys

While she masters her craft.

“Longer this time,”

She says to me.

I enter, slowly, cautiously.

The scent of Spring

Always surprises me

In this place of burning.

“It took you longer.”

Her hammer rings against the anvil

And I feel it in my bones.

“I was delayed.”

“By the weather?”

“A storm of sorts.”

“Hm?”

“Fear.

Mostly fear.”

“A mortal feeling.

I know it well —

Conceptually, of course.”

“Angels

Have no need of fear?”

“We do not tremble any longer.

There was a time… but not anymore.

And that trembling came more

From Anticipation.”

She wipes her brow

And sweat falls in emeralds

Upon the floor, shattering and scattering

Until they disappear.

Her hair dances around her head

In pink flames: embers of starshine.

She regards me

And her eyes glint like dark water

Under moonlight.

She hits the anvil again,

Done speaking for now.

She doesn’t like to remember

The Fall,

For all were Guilty in that time.

The Scent of Spring teases, once more.

I look around for living things,

But there is only her, me,

And the Fire.

And the things the Fire makes.

“What are you working on, now?”

“Grit.”

The anvil rings.

“I like the sound of that.”

“It gets old after awhile,

But I can’t abide mortal music.

It’s all so sad and similar.”

“Grit,” I correct.

“I like the sound of grit.”

She smiles, showing her

Rows and rows

Of teeth.

I cannot meet that look for long.

“Why is it so stark in here?”

Her workshop.

The white box in which she lives.

White and straight and clean,

It makes my skin itch.

My lungs feel thin.

My head, light.

“You like it that way;

To keep things looking clean.”

“Me?”

She chuckles.

“You think I care

for this Aesthetic?”

“You can leave.”

Defensive. I don’t want to be.

But this is my weakness.

She knows.

She shakes her head

And I am mesmerized by flame.

“It doesn’t work like that.

Besides, I amuse myself.

And, ‘trapped’ is not the right Word.

I am assigned.”

She gestures to the wall behind her.

Evidence of her craft in neat rows

Too much to count,

The wall extends up and up

Into blank oblivion:

Swords and spears and axes,

Shields and helmets and full suits of armor.

All Emblazoned with

Her Fire.

“You’ve been busy.”

“I amuse myself,”

She repeats.

She quits her banging.

She brings the latest creation over to something bubbling:

A fountain, where water falls from blankness,

Endlessly perspiring into a deep, deep well.

I approach

And my eyes catch hints of green in the murk.

The Scent of Spring envelops me.

“It appears, now and again,”

She explains.

“Eager to supply.”

She dips the blade.

The metal hisses within the water

And I feel a tug within me.

The steam hits her face

And she doesn’t flinch.

She brings the weapon out

And holds it up for me to see.

To hold.

“I’ve made this, and these.”

Her eyes, soft as stone, bore into me.

“Why won’t you use them?”

I feel sick

And bile rises:

“You make them.

You own them.

You use them.”

She snarls and I stagger.

“I own nothing.

Humans collect —

Money, titles, people,

Things.

We wish to own nothing,

And yet we are keepers.

This is the difference between us.”

I cannot answer,

Cannot defend.

My jaw lolls like a fish choking for air.

“Words,” she hisses.

“You and your words.”

She slashes downward with the new blade

And bonds fall from my hands,

Bonds I had not seen nor felt.

The fabric is black and white

And spotted and dotted

With maddening repetition,

Desperate reaches.

There is bruising on my wrists.

And my fingers ache to stretch.

“How long?”

I ask.

How long have I been prisoner?

“I am your defense.”

She says.

“I am your sword.

Take me up

And wield me.”

I take hilt in hand

And it feels so hot, so heavy,

My arm strains and shakes.

The skin of my palm blisters

And pulls away from bone.

Raw flesh shines like distant jewels

Within me.

“I’m not ready.”

She drops it

And I grab the hilt with both hands.

The blade hangs

A bare inch above the ground.

She steps away.

“It’s yours.

You own it.

You must keep it.”

“You see, don’t you?

“It doesn’t look right in my hands.

I’m sweating

I’m shaking

I’m…”

“Standing.”

She cocks her head to match my crookedness.

From that angle I cannot name a smile,

But I feel one, still, stamped on my heart.

I attempt to straighten.

I am not tall,

I am not straight,

But the shaking calms, if only a little.

“You are not defined by how you stand,

But how you fall.

Remember that

And carry the weight.

Your burden is not as great

Or as terrible

As Others.

But it is yours.

You own it.

You must keep it.

As I keep you.”

I adjust my feet.

My wrists and hips and back and legs

Cry out.

I hold the weight.

“We are assigned,

You and I.

It would not do

To shirk the Call;

To scramble the Command.

Keep the weapon in hand.

If it needs whetting,

You know where to find me.”

I hesitate, as I do.

And then nod.

And she shows her

Rows and rows

Of teeth.