Trojan

A finger's worth of dark from daybreak, he steps
into a red dress. A flame caught
in a mirror the width of a coffin.
Steel glinting
in the back of his throat. A flash, a white
asterisk. Look
how he dances. The bruise-blue wallpaper
peeling
into hooks as he twils, his horse
-head shadow thrown on the family
portraits, glass cracking
beneath
its stain. He moves like any
other fracture, revealing the briefest doors.
The dress
petaling off him like the skin
of an apple. As if their swords
aren't sharpening
inside him. This horse with its human
face. This belly full of blades
& brutes. As if dancing could stop
the heart
of his murderer from beating
between his ribs. How easily a boy in a dress
the red of shut eyes
vanishes
beneath the sound of his own
galloping. How a horse will run until it breaks
into weather-into wind. How like
the wind, they will see him. They will see him
clearest
when the city burns.