Last Bender

Vulcan

his grief erupts by the molten cul de sac

for dying seams of rose and burlap

wipes the weeping stitches clean

and hammers out the mailed sleeve

turned from injured silk to infernal suit

below the bursting ingot blows

the silver chestplate smokes against the anvil

charred and broken the mortared saint

his faceless helmet bent in concentration

selfmade beneath the rough monk’s hood

his burnt fingers flex the chained glove

maker of the waxen smith

flame that drains the brazen armor