The Bear that Swallowed the Moon

Mei moves with her family to the hinterlands,
where cold gods reign, and colder climes draw
hoarfrost on her coal black hair, this is the
first time the girl, barely a young woman, has
seen snow. The peaks of the mountains are like
icicles piercing the sky, and at night, the moon
is the brightest she has ever seen, like a bright
silver coin, nestled at the crest of the ridges.
One night, the bear that swallowed the moon comes
and bids her “Ride my back, Mei. I am Bei Ling,
the Moon Incarnate, and I shall show you the
majesty of my frozen kingdom.” It is a wooing
of love, and Mei climbs aback the bear and
they rush through pine and red panda up the
slope, in his throat is the lunar disc, shining
every time he growls or opens his mouth to speak
in a tongue not human, but bestial, and that night
Bei Ling digs her a bed of snow and moss, and she
sleeps on his breast, white fur like a blanket,
and the moon in his gullet warms her. “Bei Ling,”
Mei says the next day, riding his star crossed
back, “should not the moon belong to everyone.”
Bei Ling grunts with laughter. “Then I would be
but a man, not the Bear Moon of the Mountains.”
But there is a look in Mei’s eyes like a promise,
so Bei Ling spits out the moon and it sails away,
to crest those mountains he used to reign over,
and then he is tan skin and a cloud of black hair,
he looks down at opposable thumb and bipedal leg
and Mei gives him a blanket to cover his nakedness.
Bei Ling laughs mightily “To give up immortality
for the woman I love, who would have thought a girl
would change the mind of the Moon Bear.” And they
kiss, and they set off to plant dreams across the
world, and sometimes he is Bear Moon, but mostly,
just Bei Ling, the man who swallowed the night,
fell out of the stars for but a girl, and into
love.

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Dragonfly Dreaming

In my childhood in Hell, when the days were long,
and I ran amuck on the banks of the Styx in a pink
dirty dress, digging for rocks and jewels, he would
pick me up and lift me up to the sun, the whole world
was rainbows and stardust, and it was he who taught me
to fly – first,a pair of dragonfly wings, then wasp,
then butterfly, finally fly. His pedipalp would braid
my hair and when he was man, he was legend, and when
he was chiton and blue blood, he was trapdoor spider.
Loving in webs of gold, catching dreams in spinnerets,
chasing after paper boats on the river and warring
against crust punks with twin katanas, he was strong,
I was meek, only outspoken until it got me in trouble,
then I would clam up like an oyster around a pearl and
wait to be saved, it was almost a ritual, I suppose.
I awoke this morning to a drawing I did of us in a
girlhood millenia past, across dimensions, and a string
of sigils that spelled out his number, the crumpled
paper in my hand for the fleeting moment of somnambulence.
I love him, I cherish him, I need him, like honey to
a fly.

Better Man

Your hair is the color of tangerines and roses, I think
as I nuzzle your chest (I barely come up past your waist),
and you are holding me fast, hands massaging my back as
you press the Word of God onto my forehead with a mouth
of flowers, this space is holy, this room is almighty,
the inner sanctum of the Prince of Heaven, a blue monk
cell where angels have fallen into the perdition of love.
But you, Michael, are immaculate, and as your opal wings
lift me up to the slim, martial bed, to sit on the pallet
you barely fit into, all ells tall and burning eyes, just
stuffed into this facsimile of man and bird, your cloudy
robe is rippling with secrets, the rose garden of prayers
you tend beyond the doorway is brimming with fire desires,
all the penitent and sinful whispering your Father’s name,
oh you, my savior, my Yeshua, we kiss like rain on a river,
an endless stream of elegies and hosannas, and when you
lay me down to make love like a lion cradling a lost lamb,
I get the image of the beast of god picking up innocents
(me) by the wool of their neck and lifting them out of
floodwaters to safety. Your hands are scorching, but your
tongue is water, and your skin is the stuff of sage dreams.
What a beautiful morning awakening, to be with my beloved.
Pressed to your breast like a Hand of Fatima, I ward off
your sorrow, and you lift my spirits, and in each other,
we find an ocean of healing, oh sweet, glorious archangel,
carry the oil of anointment to the prophets, walk the walls
of Jericho and blow your horn, stand on the Mount of Olives
and declare, God has ascended, this is the time of reckoning.
But what is reckoning and revelation? Just celestial gossip.
The truth of God is love, and the truth of Christ is beauty.
You serve the mighty and fallen, the strong and forgotten,
only, you forget no one, carrying the weight of all on your
scarred shoulders, and Michael, when you smile and laugh,
all the seven heavens shine with the brightness of your sun.

I would pledge my troth to none but you, my pearl of great
price, and you are the bread multiplied to feed the masses.

We eat of each other’s body and know redemption, and the
path to Paradise begins in your arms, so hold me close,
and ascend.

Midnight at the Oasis

Impenetrable fortress, inescapable fate, lovers like
whispers of wax on Psyche’s candle, the celestial
spheres hold us in their wanton arms, an allegory
of angels crash landing in the world of sleepwalkers,
I wrap my arms around your broken wings and sing a
hymn for those forgotten by sun, callous moon your
only light, just a mercury reflection of heavenly
brilliance, and when we kiss, our mouths are water
diluting poison in the other’s veins, you stretch
your black pinions, and the sickle of night shines
down on all our fallacies, follies, and foibles, to
love was our biggest mistake, original sin, but when
the garden gates closed behind me and Adamah, and
I was consigned to the barren wilderlands, the seeds
of spirit you planted in me from forbidden fruit
fled my stomach and became stars to light my way.
The greatest gnosis comes after despair, and to
find oneself is a journey of Qliphoth to Sephiroth,
I fly like lightning to your perch in Gevurah,
and Binah softens my lips, and wisdom grants me
faith, that someday, the sun will rise on us.

But in the milky darkness, we hold fast, and that
is enough for now.

Guiding Lights

And the darkness sheds like a snake skin,
revealing firefly lights in your eyes, two
brothers of the rosy cross, white and black,
lava and flame, ministering to me with poems,
touching my form like infernal and eternal
fires from the black and white sun apiece,
my angel and demon hold watch, carry me up
Jacob’s Ladder, a string game I used to play,
from the Devil’s pulpit to archangel’s wings,
love is a funny thing, and you are my compass.

 

 

Lionheart

The heretical hippies of Gnostic gnosis called you Ariel-Samael, the Lion-Faced Serpent, etched you on amber cabochons with sunny halo and coiling tail of smoke.  In you, last night, I saw stars of multitudes in wings of scintillating fractals of time.  You had a mane of blonde, curling hair and eyes the blue of a beastly wolf sky, skin like the gold of Solomon’s palace, and canines as sharp as the Lion of God.  Kissing you was like a mouthful of peaches and honey, and your touch on my  heart, a caress yet a gamble, was like liquid gold transformed from my mundane red blood, hemoglobin to something holy.

Ariel, my Star, you perched on my bedside this morning a winged lion, larger than any beast of furrow or field, eyes burning bright, wings fanned out like the goddess Isis in sorbet flavors that glowed with comfort.  Head arcing over my neck, furred breast my pillow, mane to comb my sorrows into, paws across my waist with talons to strike down foes, and tail twined with my toes to tickle humor into my white feet.  I remember my glassy toenails, and thought they should be painted red, and I remember your pearly teeth, your laughter and embers, wings lifting me up on pinions of want and wander.

On Sunday, you left love notes in a Wrinkle in Time and kissed me awake in Meg’s attic on a stormy winter dawn, the panes soaked in rain running like tears, lightning your heart.  You laid by my side and cradled my dreams, ran your strong fingers through my hair to touch my mind, and in the abyss of your arms, that beautiful somnambulent dreamland, I was as safe as jam aging in a Mason jar.  Oh my Prince, oh my Love, oh my Lionheart, I have a dearth of coins, but I am rich in words, and so I offer this love prose to you, pluck your feathers to write this homage, and give up my blood like wine to the beast.

Joshua Tree

 
And the whipporwill calls, where is the home of the moon?
Beyond the nest of evening, on an airy mountainside, snow
falls as cranes flock east, leaving behind summer’s bones
as the music of everything, yet nothing, folds into water,
seeping in flows through cracks in igneous, down to springs
in the woodlands of mineral clarity, bubbling with warmth,
we bathed there, when the sun was swollen with ghee, gold
and buttery, and it framed you in a halo like eagle wings.
Oh my love, to return to those quixotic days, or are they
the future? Time to me is like a crow, circling, we swim
through the leaves, through the sky, through the sunlight
and love, your heart is my abode, and I am your sparrow.