I am the golden-teared princess crying
rivers in which you drown: the essence
of sea salt preserving, the chaos
you’re hurting, a vanguard now
converging on the brink of collapse,
a Circassian beauty, reckless,
but fully aware that you’re cutting
off circulation to my “little finger”.
You couldn’t even part with me.
Your wings hold back the sun’s rays
as the daughters of Medusa make their way
through the metropolis. It’s just a sunset.
Livestock rots while the blood starts to clot
and the anura create green carpets for the hail to descend upon,
darkness falls and I still hear you calling out
to the lovers on the wall, keep your eyes open!
I am responsible according to your gospel
(it was the woman whom thou gavest to be with me).
Cipro, psycho, intentional
at all times, you might be a misogynist,
reactive, narcissistic, and hopelessly optimistic.
Mother, darkness is a more cryptic load to carry.
I am not your x to mark the spot, stop digging
into me. (The devil is guiding
your hands.)
It’s easy to recover
from lip service when spite is
your tonic, I will not be
your Catherine of Aragon.
Some of the blood is drying now,
but I still miss
you when you hold me. (You remove your shoes
in my presence, because that is what I have commanded of you.)
I am not yours to be jealous for,
so I stick flowers in the barrel and press
cool metal to my temple,
as our fingers interlace around the trigger.
Your hands are shaking.
I was an idol when you were
idle, but heaven forbid
your flaming sword keep me from paradise.
Abhorrent and bleeding, I’m just
the burial cloth of the Nazarene, begging you
to tell me you believe in cleansing by fire.