Silken webs she wove from the threads of spit that dripped from out of
her. Seeping spermatic tangle for me to find my home within. There
with(in) the devouring mother, she of six or seven legs, one mutilated
half torn from the body from some bitter struggle or another, opening my
guts already in sweating anticipation for her fangs. She who would hold
my head beneath the bathwater, who would sip my screams from the bubbles
before they could burst, she wears a robe spun of stormclouds, perfumed
by a balm of malfeasance, a haze which floats and flits about her many
eyes encrusting her face like sordid gems and swirling like the wheels
in Ezekiel’s burning vision.
My blood speaks its salient language…salience or silence—I cannot
remember which—and hums within my veins. These sewers which flow
within me; their filth and their waters are yours if you would only
carve me open, I say, but she shouts in salves of thunder and I am
quiet. Silent my blood shall be, no longer salient (whatever this word
may mean; I have forgotten in my distress, because how smooth one slides
into the other: silence and salience, how I would like for these to
mean the same; a lexical hole protruding, the sharpened point of the
intervals between speech soliciting outward, silence manifest into
something physical, like ideographic holes torn into the fabric spread
of sky where I would imagine words would be if written by the nib of
God’s stylet with which He engraves upon the worldly slate His spells
of…but breath falls short of me here), and outside of this aside I
snap back to myself, recollecting my distress fumbled like bits of
broken glass about the ground.
To put it plainly I would like to kiss this woman, to be bitten by this
woman; now, quickly, so as to be done with it. So afraid of what comes
next, so afraid of all that has come before; a fear of life itself, and
I know, I know because I see it, I read it, there! etched in the lines
of her lips like calligraphic strokes about a scroll: Your distance
spreads the skies between your eyes, and could we dare to join them
together, to bring about or together our apocalypse, one’s pair upon the
other’s; tearing the fat of the tissue like blades across the waxed
flesh of infants?
The angels with their trumpets, the angels with their bowls; they spill
and sound their wrath to spell the end of this first end, and I swiftly
shift away like a letter torn from the envelope of this body and I am
read. Like language I am taken in, seeped into her stomach like the
petulant child who cries to call out for God as he is all awash in
flames; swimming in this paradise of flowing clouds of amnion, rank and
vulgar fluids, clotted rivers of blood perfumed of iron ore and ochre.
I am swallowing her in turn, or what of her insides are for me the
skies, because I wish to be her world; she who has taken me in, I will
breach the bounds of her body to make of her flesh a cosmos; her every
ovum a star, the blood she will drain in my redelivery the water of the
oceans; this, the New Jerusalem, New Heaven, the fertile fields of this
natal Heaven crashing down upon the earth.
And how I will swim within every sea—stomach down, breast
stroke—with mouth open, the fluids of your fertility flowing through
me, and the memory of your murder, the gift of death I gave to
immortalize you as the All which holds all of this wonderful Everything
within it. Because you murdered me. Because I begged this much of you,
remember? tearing this death from the sharp of your own fangs like spit
when I was starved. But you knew this was your gift to give, and yours
to receive in turn.
I wish for you to die, you told me. Only because I love you so much,
because I know of no gift more prodigious than this. And I said the
same for you, and my throat I promised as sheath for your blades always;
offering my skull for your pointed feet, with the pavement for my bed as
you stomp some song or lullaby to send me off to sleep. And what I asked
of you, all I ask of you, is to allow me the pleasure of stringing
your veins like streamers across the sky, from one end of endless space
to another, to commemorate your death with the life which you have
granted to everything. This death which you have given me.
A death as many deaths given from as many births—as man and man and
men; all of these a dead end, every male life lived a failed reality.
Would that I have been born as you—you who seek to devour me, so that,
perhaps with the lips of my own mouth, I might meet or touch myself as
if in a kiss to devour my own body and give birth to myself thereby.
Mothering myself as daughter, as perhaps who I should have always been,
who at times I feel I long to be because my lungs are flooded with
flames of envy when I see you, and those like you, knowing I might or
could have been you before you, that I would like to be you in your
place inside of this body which would feel more home than my own.
To dip the nib in red ochre of these fluids that are mine, whose pangs
and suffering would torment with the convulsions of life; life since I
would be thrown near to the dregs of death, draining here and again a
life that might have could have been (and would that it could even be
yours so that I might this time be your mother, and would that it could
even be myself so I could love myself as mother-child, and give to you a
sister in me, and would that it have been me from your own womb so you
could raise me as your own starlet fallen from the iron-amnion sky).
But now I’ve lost track and fumbled my womanway. Now what if as woman I
could continue? What if with woman’s step I could go on? What if with
woman’s words I could speak to you even now on the brighter side of your
murder, finding a way to hold you, or for you to hold me, holding one
another as women, as lovers, the two of us radiant as crystal,
glimmering as the very jewel of Lesbos; so much like a sapphire we would
shine, utterly Sapphic in our splendor. To watch as the waves of Greece
felled the other states that are not ours, that belong to them,
flattening the heights of Mount Athos and drowning those who sought
truth in the world of words.