May 26, 2009

Volcanic Origins

I dreamt last night. A coliseum.
It was you and some other man.
He held a pike. You had no weapon.
You were a lion. I was sand.

The crowd cried out. Some foreign language.
There was commotion. There was blood.
You slid. You fell. Heavy upon me.
Your golden body. I was mud.

I held you close. I spread beneath you.
I made myself soft as a bed.
You breathed an imprecise staccato.
You moved against me. I was red.

We were the circus. The crowd watched us.
A shouting, stretching, swaying cage.
You didn't hear. You lay against me.
You were still. I was rage.

I rose around you. Rose around them.
I filled their ears. I shut their eyes.
I stopped their throats. I stopped their shouting.
They shrank away. I multiplied.

I rose around them. Higher. Higher.
Until I stood there all alone.
No sound. No movement. No one judging.
No witnesses. I turned to stone.

I held you, cradled, deep inside me.
Where hot, red, liquid life still flowed.
I stayed that way. Mute. Monumental.
A great reliquiary of love.

Then I wept. The tears welled slowly,
and, flowing over, scorched my cheeks.
They wrote in rivulets of fire
the words that sand could never speak.

I woke a human. Flesh and fragile.
Flushing and damp in summer heat.
My jaw like stone. Lips like obsidian.
Silence erupting through my teeth.

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