Blacksmith Sestina (apologies to Abena for the title)

he is learning slowly that the days
between heartbreaks are not fixed
by some preacher, tailor, blacksmith,
or milkmaid. The story of his sleeves
is one of tragic tearing, biting, gnashing.
this is the soul of metamorphosis.

where butterflies begin metamorphosis
by enveloping silk around their days,
the teeth of the evening slowly gnashing
wail their chain gang song, fixed
upon the furious bloodstains on the sleeves
of the woman who would be blacksmith.

the hammer drops. perplexed blacksmith
smashing swords in iron metamorphosis
wipes her brow on frustrated sleeves,
refusing to drink. His are sterile days
of hairs standing on neck, eyes fixed
forward, knuckles and feet gnashing

in rhythm to fingers and bone gnashing
against the forehead of the blacksmith,
stubborn, nihilistic, refusing to be fixed
unconscious of his slow metamorphosis
over these impossible grinding days
etched upon both of their tired sleeves.

the light threads of lace upon sleeves.
a bride's father nervously gnashing
his teeth. a mother prays for better days
like a twitch in the hands of the blacksmith
spending her life living the metamorphosis
of the butterfly, her anvil still fixed

to the ground. today, two lovers are fixed
like heavy stripes upon the sleeves
of the dawn of their metamorphosis
gone are the hours of iron gnashing
iron, here and now, steady blacksmith
smiles at the recompense of dark days.

he will have done with the gnashing.
he will feel the lace in her sleeves.
he will live in the marrow of her days.