She could have been the Beloved from Song of Songs
Dark I am, yet lovely...like the tents of Kedar.
Solomon's prize of a thousand harems.
The wisest man the world 'ere saw,
he dearly loved the lasses.
He was not the wisest.
Spoke soul-less poetry in a fast accent,
The hipster romantic, in plaid and velvet,
Their romance was yet unspoken,
hints-- I suspected the first week
he went to her like the hound to the fox,
distant horns sounding.
I watched them say goodbye--
lips trying not to touch,
the air between them heavy
with the memory of drunken kisses
For your love is stronger than wine.
I dreamed I dug a bullet
out of my own thigh.
I asked if I might bleed to death
and they said no
as long as I packed it with happy thoughts
and my mind went blank.
There was no pain, no cringing release,
grim rush to blank reality,
these legs are used to feeling.
I pressed a dirty palm to the ragged edges.
I feel better.
Take this violent heart of mine.
Someone pulled the pin with a kiss
spit shrapnel and blood,
cut your lips without meaning to.
Cough enough smoke, and your eyes water
Born under the rising of a red sun.
Blood spilled this night and every night
between sheets of rain and steel
cold, heavy, stark as my eyes in the morning
when waking to the sirens.
Foxhole of fear and foot-shooter,
What am I good for?
Men may cry peace, peace,
but there is no peace.
Not in this violent heart.
There is something divine, of light through clouds,
in that cantabile,
the plaintive, golden chords, minor falls,
radiating from the deepest recess of the soul
a tugging lilt of melody.
To think these might be the lowest harmonies of heaven
the simplest of notes in Gabriel's voice
the sweetest, must be so,
It is a wonder
the heart does not break with beauty.
Apollo pursues me.
The want, unwanted, advance.
Let the zephyrs carry my voice to Olympus,
till my nails split, sprouting
the tendrils of newly birthed leaves.
The First blood he would have spilled
turns to sap, heavy, leaded, golden--pure.
Bones and bark and marrow the wick,
Lock me in chamber unreachable
the coffin, or resting place, peace, quiet
ring upon ring of aged silence.
Fingers, fulfill yourself to branches,
as you might have been in another life.
Feet, still, take root.
Let the toes feel deeper than mud between them,
drive the pulses into the ground,
to the earth from whence we came,
dust to dust.
Limbs, twine round my waist,
hide the breasts he so covets,
make them rough,
fuse the legs, the lips, he sought to part.
Shall my name now be Laurus nobilis
noble, sexless, untouched,
He shall not have me.