I call her Keris because of the way she looks at me. It’s not her eyes, but something behind them—bounded in her retinas—that piques me. When she looks, I can feel it undulate, pendulate across my cheek. Her gaze is like a whipped sword, dancing in the forge, puckering to the scraping of the cinders. She is like ash—soot—the tuyere, ever-huffing the smoky circles around her eyes, lips like vibrant coals. She has seen iron—steel—their watered hissing as she guides them to their graves.

And now she comes again—Keris—that namesake for the unspeakable. I am wretched—heart clanging on my ribs like striker on anvil—strengthening; adrenal—, perhaps, but wretched nonetheless. I am sure of it—she will be my savior—and I will be her weapon—evermore.