Warrior's Breath

You enter my kingdom
by ten thousand wounds,
those in your brother's body,
and in yours.
Each chariot wheel
rolls toward its center.
No restless search for honey
in some other garden,
but this dark syrup, wine of the heart,
contents you.
Some pray until dawn,
and some ask, "Who listens?"
But you have wrestled and succumbed
to a ruthless wonder
beyond words,
and found the way to worship
the lance that pierced you.
Never crying, "Withdraw it!"
you seek no immortality,
grateful for the whisper
of your ebbing breath, my Name.
A song swells in your throat,
a voice that is yours and not yours,
the way smoke curls
from a wick just now blown out.
Then you return to my lips.

Photo: The Dying Gaul, Capitalline Museum, Rome