I live in a heart that is a
strip of small jungle;
it is quiet still threads of sticky white
that dazzle quickly before they
trap and capture.
To see them,
you have to have
the right lighting.

My body is the night forest,
and my limbs stretch wide
like fields of pines
containing all the living;
all their howls, their cries,
their broken limbs, their
broken packs and pacts,
their starvation and all the detritus
that supply them with their ground
to cover,
to abate their hunger.
You are led by sound,
not sight, and you are walking
blind into my
creation.

I was lucky with a moon.
When you looked directly at me
you shined, and you saw your death
that you would face
inside of mine.
What does war feel like?
I asked him as he lay
praying on my doorstep.
I crawled hastily
to his side the minute I felt
the vibration of his
sudden landing.
I did not delay pulling out my
desiccating fangs;
submit to the drying I love,
the desert he wanted,
taste his anguish in surrender,
himself suspended in
air like a hierophant
divined and now martyred
into angel,
into innocent sufferer.
His visions true.
With me, he would
fly.

He stared straight up
blessing every constellation
that grazed us as I dined:
it is the capture of all that you
have hunted, and the longing
that remains unremitting even
as you sip the last lush vein
of your prey.
It is the emptiness of digestion,
of excretion, of forgetting,
and wanting all of the time
more and more.
War is the hunt
we ask for.

Is love the surrender?
I moved in and out
of starlight so he could
see the clever thing that
lured him here to
waiting ambush,
he the stalking cat,
she the patient coffin
that lay him when he
fell.
I wrapped my pines around him,
delivered the cathedral he
earned, the beauty of
the night.   The crickets
loudened, and the wolf hide
I draped myself in
to chase him through his every cycle,
wriggled in a sudden breeze
on a branch high enough for him
to see as his eyes shut,
dancing.

And he faced me with fatality:
love is everything you’ve ever felt
unobstructed by your meaning
about it; untouched by your
lethal prose.

I wrapped him in
silk and silence,
not a verse to shake
the immaculate heart
between us.
His dying wish:
to feel what it was
that led us
here, still and
unobscured;
the place I rest
my violence.

“homes”

.

 

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