Strong hips of umber and sway,
climbing to the top of the ladder.
Skin under fingernails like
fine ice under sharpened blades.
She drapes her kimono upon him,
and dubs him Ahimsa –
to iron out the creases
in his given name.
He speaks in hushes and whispers,
eyes rolling inward. Now heightened,
he awakens to his calm.
His hands steady at the neck of his foe;
painter of houses, gardener of fear.
He strides across the long valley of his storm.
He paces and waits, and poses and strikes.
Then Ahimsa lays down his weapon,
and surrenders, bleached to the bone.