Make It Holy

Don’t try to drag the man out of the holy:
to separate the fact from fiction, hero and
villain are too entangled in Eddas and Bibles,
myth makes mortality impossible, your Eros will
never age, his words will always injure you,
his jewels are shards of your heart and Bluebeard
might be his truth – you never know with princes,
how many dead wives the gods have, how many maidens
they spit curses upon like Apollo his Cassandra,
deny them and you freeze, accept them, burn staked
through the heart by a flame that overwhelms sanity –
you’ll find yourself stringing rosaries at midnight,
calling his name and feeling, tasting, smelling him
but nothing more than ghostly touches, make it holy,
the love between woman and angel makes monsters –
cannibal giants that cannibalize man, like your love
will consume you until you see him etched on retina,
first thing in morning and last before slumber, in
mourning as dawn breaks, broken in evening solitude,
you will always long for more, destruction at his hand,
to sink into the essence of your Beloved and become
nothing more than his Shakti, movable woman meets
immovable man, wandering fairy hills a madwoman,
the gift of a god, of a demon, an angel, is just
a kiss, just a promise, and more often that not,
you will find yourself cracked open in his hands,
so maybe it’s better if you never loved him at all –
after all, there’s no turning back on an immortal,
maybe you should have run like the lore says,
because Zeus incinerates, love hurts, and you
will tire of grinding down bone to dreamdust,
love for a god is a thankless task, no one will
know how many sleepless elegies you sung, how many
times you came close to dying from heartwretchedness
how many times you were pinned, stripped by his eyes
how hands like silk and tongues like velvet teased
out prayers, how you bent so he would fit within,
and together you are endless, but alone, you wonder.