Victor was a demon in disguise
who came through the gates singing a gospel chorus of loveshame when my city fell to power. We were a people of one.
I met him in a doorway, seated on a throne of shadows, musing. Because his tune was my native tongue, we wrapped ourselves around it and laced our fingers like lattice, crossing one another.
On the night a baby had been born we drank ale and licked our lips in a new kind of hunger. We lay in a bed of possibilities rolled up like a ball of string and unraveled ourselves to straightness. At the end of wine-red cords untangled, there was nowhere else to go but between the arches of legs now open to entrance, to coming and going. I found him in the wrinkles of a patchwork quilt and licked his stitches. When they were wet with tenderness, I gave myself permission to sleep. At dawn the seams were loose.
He entered the city a trusted s/aint, believed upright; believed a bastion lovegift, a field of orchid flowers and godsbreath. He entered the city and undressed himself in the middle: statuesque and long, goldskin and firefoot, a valley of stomach, and small brown peaks for citizen kiss. His lips folded out from face like pink waterfalls that wrapped themselves around and floated me in to the deepest place, a volcanic heart of ash, a hole in the ground. He lay his armor aside and made his body a clearing. He summoned me through the enchantment of trees overgrown, into the delusion of safety in a heartspace. He became Bacchus singing lightly and kissed my naked collar. Every sandalwood breath infused cell with surrender. I tore down brick and wall to give to god like treasure.
Take my city, have it, and stay?
And then I saw
Victor was a demon in disguise and godschild. I am prodigal.
Inside, the core was not solid; it ran all over … hot and unable to be held—even by warm hands with deeply chasmed love lines. I am all ridges and texture, evolving nuance and dry cranny. He is wildfire and destruction. And in his deepunder it was impossible to love in a place where man always immolated to memory. Still, I turned myself into an offering and freely burned. I turned myself to black dove and spread my wings to watch my feathers melt. I turned myself into smoke and rose into tearless eyes and dry mouth. When he opened them I came out as pollution and he turned his head away.
In the center of my city, the pyromancer instigated destruction, cracked open earth like a red sea of loveblood and called forth an allotment of pandemonium and six year war.
All my buildings fell. Nature transformed. All that lived found death and married it firmly.
In the place of embers, demon spoke from fire. I saw the face of all men and asked it questions:
Is there always darkness inside light?
Is that how we make it?
(I have seen the two as twin lovers when men cannot embrace. There is always something inside the mirror can’t see.)
And then the voice of the fire was other tongues:
The shades of a soul are always drawn.
Victor was the god of destruction. I called his name loudly. I sold my soul for realness, in want of material flesh. I wanted to stretch my limbs and lay my naked body across his cornea; to be behind the lids of his eyes so even in darkness I’d be. I wanted to climb inside his mouth, tie rope to tongue, and hang there, tasted. I wanted to be what want was, not knowing that demons are not men.
I held on tight even as the city fell. My teeth drank the blood of his toes as I regurgitated devotion. My hands dangled and ashed away to the pit until nothing was left but disembodied words:
I curse you.
I mark you as death.