The Curtain Maker

From the memory of how you came
to recognize the seedling nature of the shaking infant-
through seizures, aroused by sporadic silver intrusions-
the curtain maker flees.

I became you one night, singing songs at dark, monotone
prayers of transcendence vibrating behind eyesockets,
writing themselves, and then forgotten.

An evil butterfly, with wings of splendor and a black
heart, living in a garden of dark flowers. Pressing your
lips to the same gray rose who pushed you away not a
moment before, subsisting on the blood of martyrs-
voices once airborne and whaling, like sonic doves.

The curtain maker, one who has yet to tread soil as
pure as that which buries you, streaked your skin with the
dust of falsehood, and lied directly into your mouth
with her kiss.

There is no curtain to billow in the wind,
only the dry, pale tongues of your touch and the chlorophyll
of absence, imitating the substance, the physical
existence of you.

Transmission

So seduce me and come
into a garden of dark flowers,
pretending it is yours
to give away,

Where the soil, moist with
poisonous perfumes, is graced
with black petals, and red petals,
the blooming of which forces
dizzying breath into skulls
unaccustomed to grandeur,
gourds disoriented by beauty.

This garden in your house,
where the pulse and groove
of unforeseen intimacies is written
subtlely, with gentle codes,
inside of your blood.