He stands in a candlelit bedroom
playing Ave Marias on
her Stradivarius life, now
kissed by tongues of fire,
molten arias from earth’s core.
Her face is marble,
eyes, carved pools no spring can fill,
a howl from Hades
sealed by her sculpted lips.
She tears out her hair,
razor carves her forehead,
hand wrestles with the beast.
“Who will prevail?”
the sourceless question echoes,
and begs her lover speak.
His meditation rent by
midnight’s invisible wolves
lapping up curdled blood,
he scarcely dares to move.
She’ll whirlpool him
into her mire. Must he
leave her to her demons?
He kneels, lays down his I Am
broken fiddle and hidden in
Sinai’s cave, secure,
implores God to pass by.
She hears, hisses, foams at the mouth,
constricts her grip
but cannot speak.
Choked by her giant anaconda grasp,
he prays in gasps, with lifted hands.
Hail Mary, Mother of God!
Rabboni! Sar Shalom! Adonai!
Allah u akbar! Bismillah il rahman il rahim!
Mother of all Buddhas, have mercy!
And so he pleads until
Fang-pierced Hands
pick up the broken fiddle
and play the cobra smooth,
till she lies limp in a manger
wrapped in still small unknown tunes.
Copyright, 2012