Tell me this isnt accurate…
Seen objectively, by a man at the window
We do not seem to look like much;
A woman and a man on a red leather couch,
Coke bottles everywhere and a filthy throw,
Also red, already unraveling, wound round
Our legs, binding us like threads of blood.
You are short, fair, very stocky, with a face
Which swerves between nobility and petulance.
I am long and dark with matted hair,
Long, braided, my head culminating in nose,
With an expression of thought, easily mistaken,
Because of my gender, for the more banal sort of worry.
This is what the observer, not
Objective, and lacking eyes,
Could not comprehend. As I fritter
The hours on keyboarded words
And you run one thick hand
Down the length of my thigh, accompanied
By blaring television, we are in the throes
Of deep creation; a task in which two
Are occupied though only one acts.
You hold the rope as I delve down,
Leaving the rooms of our close flat,
A cord round my waist,
A taut crimson thread; I plunge
To that river where the water is strong
Enough to stop my bodies breathing,
The taste so sweet it halts my heart.
You brace me, an anchor, who bolts
Me to this visible earth, while I shunt
To the places that foxes know of, where bodies
Stiffen, and the dead shades rise
To take their fill from Hecate’s ewer,
Avoiding the face of the goddess who smiles,
Trying not to identify the taste, the rich salt
Flavors mingled there in her brimming bowl.
You enable me to go so much deeper
Than I would otherwise dare travel, and your form
Highlights your function, your incredible force.
And when I have the gift,
The vivid, longed for treasure, held firm
In my hands, I nod my head in thanks
To the goddess, tugging at the binding flax,
And it is the strength of both our arms
Which helps me rise to garish surface.
And no, you are not purpose,
No, you are not cause, without you,
I would still plunge. I must;
I did it before I met you, and I shall do
When you have gone. Though once you’ve made that passing,
You shall not go alone. I shall be your psychopomp,
Twining out my golden thread, tied firmly
To the door jamb.
Now, when I rise up, gasping beside you,
Your hands in my hair, holding me up
By the back of my throat, know my love,
That we are mythic; the bride of Orpheus,
The musician himself, sitting on a dead
Cow sofa with their genders reversed.
Feed on that knowledge, when the world
Leaves you hungry, consume it in your valorous heart.
It is the unseen splendor of our love.