Ericka Becks
Aurora, Wǒ de ài When I was a girl, my father taught me to wield a soldier’s blade, taught his Nǚhái crown could not sit on the head of a woman who couldn’t fight her own demons away
Sword extended arm, reach, breathed power into lungs, silver too quick for any suitor to best.
I was my own king
And then she descended, amber red curls catching moonlight, and sword clashed with flesh, lung, knocking breathe away
When I was queen, I learned to breathe jasmine, freckled hipbone the particular shade of pink that was her tongue, learned to cradle my love in tiny arms 58
I carried it to mountain peaks, to castles walls, to her wedding day. My father taught me pour oil on your blade, and I’ve tried but it cannot cut through the rust
