When is a monster, 
A jagged, broken thing, 
Not a monster?
A taunt.
You could break the beast.

She sinks into his sheets,
Waiting.
The bed smells like a long day’s work.

Wavering in the doorway,
He knows iron and marble,
Hears no breath but the bellows,
His voice a lantern, searching in a mine.

She’s never seen anything like him.
Her thunderous heart rolls under whitest dress.
When is a monster
Not a monster?

Soot smudges cheeks,
calloused fingers cradle sea-soft swells,
Her skin flushes molten gold.
And
He trembles,
A bent-winged sparrow.

Her darling mountain man,  
Deep doe eyes,  
Taut muscle beneath burnished skin.
When is a monster
Not a monster?
She hasn’t left his bed since.

She is no toy trophy
Abandoned on a pedestal.
A new language of anvil and steel,
Her hair sheared short,
Pliant arms now hard and lean.
Her laughter rings like wedding bells,
The sweetest echo.

Stay. Simple. Stay here.
Maybe she doesn’t want heaven.
No one will miss her.
No one remembers his name.
When is a monster
(Jagged-called-broken) 
Not a monster?

But together they weld,
Palm to palm, breast to breast,
Rooted and solid and whole.