The village hero has sent word that he is returning.
He didn't say it in so many words
But the villagers have already began fattening the sheep.
Apparently, he fought the war and claimed victory over the
isle of incumbents.
They said he climbed up the mountain, scouting the inference
Negating the past and fighting the future
It was glorious they said.
Exceptionally staged.
Divinely timed.
Canonically aligned to his hubris.
The war was what, an expedition to the hell that resides in you
or the purgatory you left the village in?
Waiting, panting, scrapping metal against enamel
Fingernails in grey pots.
Ash between the lines of your fire.
I don't buy it.
Where have your flatfeet been, lucky boy?
How'd you make it out?
What did you do?
Which part of you did you give up
as an offering to the gods to return a god?
He came back.
And she was excited.
Angry that the war did not consume him
But still excited that he thought of her doorstep
as a place to rest is sword, shield and boots.
So she bathed.
The water burning the days waited.
The steam removing the impress of panic
The fragrance etching its way
Carving a path for him to follow
A route he already knows
But still, maybe he would have forgotten
So she makes a concession for his potential embarrassment.
Guides him to the side table.
Put your armor down.
Put your armor down.
And so he did.
Neglecting the danger behind his back.
The knife cradled against my ankle.
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