Because quietude is simply a precursor to war. 

Battle is a swollen stomach

gorging itself on blood and skeletal deconstruction.

When unsatisfied

it sucks the marrow from the bone until civilization is left hollowed, 

bird-boned and broken into flight.

Because in this brutality, he thrives. 

Because in peace he is a pauper. 

His mind is not equipped for the stagnancy of mathematics.

He is poised, poison, deadly precision, each limb

packaged in unyielding flesh.  

The skin of swords, 

not meant for the fragility of human touch.

Because she sleeps beside him. 

A woman with soft curves, soft eyes, soft lips. 

The nape of her neck, gardenia on her collarbone, 

the beauty mark on her temple like a stolen drop of black ink. 

Because he wants to sip these moments like an overflowing glass of sake, 

Because even here, his dreams interfere, 

the taunting end of his blade. 

Because sometimes he imagines cutting his arteries

disentangling his intestines, slicing each nerve

splintering his own bones until they trespass his bloodstream.

Because he only half-believes there is honor here. 

Because sometimes he wonders if the Christians were right

in their scripture of suicide and sin.

A samurai cannot sleep

because often he’s not sure he can breathe right.

Because sometimes he presses and prods and panics

and forgets where he placed his pulse. 

A cavern, aching in its emptiness.

A man, 

fearing the five fingers of his right hand.