She was barefoot and in a velvet dress,
and we left our footprints in the wet sand
as we walked down the beach.
She had kissed me once, years ago, here,
but that moment of affection was long gone,
and now she had the ways of death to teach.
The sea was dark and tempestuous, like her,
like the dreams of her I had every night, going under,
to the waters that birthed her from a spell.
The silver blade was in her hand, she cut my belly,
and ran her finger through the blood, took a taste,
and said: “As a boy, as a prince, as a slave, you did well.”
Call up sirens and spirits and things wild of another world,
and you cannot make yourself their master or lord.
They will wrap you in the silver bonds of cruelty, devotion.
And there is death in loss, and knowing nothing belongs to you.
She makes a cross on my forehead with my blood, the last binding.
She turns from me, back into the ocean, spent the last of the potion.
She pulls off the dress, free and not made by the god that made me,
and is free in nakedness and without shame, and down into the
slate and colorless waves she dives, leaving the best kind of death,
the little death of greed and emotion, of a paradise that tasted of
the iron tang of blood, and the aching loss in a poets selfish heart,
that makes cathedrals and sacred groves of a wild girl’s breath.
as the train shambles and shakes like an undead corpse.
Undead corpse, unsteady on it’s feet, usnure of what is
happening. Me, the train, the undead, just stagger on.
and mysterious, like the teasing out of the corner of your
eye, smirk of an angel, giving a hit for free, so you chase
her into the vaulted snowy plains of heaven, giving her your soul.
as her eyes suck me into her starlit orbit, the outlier of her psychic magic.
I give her devotion and lust and fascintion, for that narcotic hit of mercy,
to feel light and horny and mad, like when I was a young man.
the world of work, I silently worship her as we pass her billboard,
as she smokes the gossamer incense through my eyes, keeping herself
powerful and strong and beloved and on top of this shitty little world.
Her name is Eve.
Eve, like in The Garden, in that tale I used to love.
That I could have been Adam, and spent even a
little eternity with just her in the world, in paradise.
I try to make myself handsome, to look nice, to shine.
Try to make myself believe, that I am good, and sweet
like she is. My friend whom I love to see, sorting the books,
or talking to me about the new YA thing, or cool picture book.
To just see her smile, and fix those green eyes upon me,
that make me think she sees an angel inside of my skin,
an angel I may once have been.
She is passion, and kindness and spell binds the little ones,
when in the kids section, among painted animals and palm trees,
she tells stories of King Arthur, Robin Hood and heroes of old.
I do see an angel in her skin, all the light of the world held in her,
all the love and tenderness and kindness it’s so easy to lose sight of.
I’ll buy my books, and say goodbye, and when she smiles at me,
when her soft and strong voices tells me goodnight, for a moment,
I remember, I remember, the angel I once was.
I take your hand,