In your pale cotton coat
You stepped, with a sharpshooting of German,
Out of the dormant train.
I read each scar in the stonework
Of your face, and stared
Transfigured by its rosetta marks,
By its mythologies as if
Seeing god for the first time.
We were sons of war
Not quite the Bogatyrs or the Teutons
Of ancient terror and fury.
Our reins were held, our minds
Sharp-edged against the scorched sand
Soon to be cradle
To our undying flesh and
Our dreams unfettered.
Then there you were, in all your glory
Floating before me in nothing else
The moon your halo, your crown
The Holy One of my resurrection.
Requisitioned as your willing puppet
I performed for you, a sacred tsar
Painted with hearts you wished
Were yours to keep.
But your eyes were shut tight.
Your ungloved hands reached me
From the life that you survived to touch me
Between my served ribs, a god's trademark
Upon that which was always yours.
A story that had to be told
As you rested beside me, reading each conduit
Of the moonlit labyrinth of my heart,
Your joy finally catching you unwitting
Remembering everything we do
Everything we will be.