Wednesday, July 20, 2016

in her house ...


in her house ...

in her house
strings of berries
and sliced oranges
that have soured
hang from the teak canopy
over her bed
and at night
after lovemaking
i dream of
a forest
dense and thick
and full of stagnant air
where a mottled serpent
comes to devour me

they say she is descended
from gypsies
who once roamed the south of Spain
vagrants who left Morocco
to find a new life
across the Mediterranean
but i know those
are just tall tales
lies that linger
like Egyptian myths
since she has such
lily-white skin
and speaks with
a Slavic accent

her boy is twelve now
and he looks at me
with disdain on his lips
and anger in his eyes
as if i were his enemy
or at best a rival
in some strange guerre d'amour
his soul is infested with some black desire
teetering on the brink of consummation
a carnal heat waking him each night
and driving him from his moss-coloured room
down the narrow hallway
to sleep patiently
outside her bedroom

i have loved her
for a hundred centuries now
her beauty a pool of so many different faces
i have invaded her world
with twisted tales of romance
and the falsehoods of my past
stories that i sometimes offer her
as she sips her morning coffee
i watch her face and i know she guesses
that each and every one chronicles
some series of events i have fabricated
to make conversation or in some strange way
to hide the perilous reason
i am here

before winter's end
she paints the door a bright red
and says it is a symbol
of God's grace
a shield during Passover
to protect her house
from slaughter
but when the storm of blood
crosses the doorway
and the boy dies
before the coming of dawn
she will know then who i am
and why i have been living in her house
waiting

 









 








 
 


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