The Death of Zagreus.
Art from Europeana on Unsplash.
The Death of Zagreus.
It is a miracle to wake up these days
& not burn like an asshole. The assholery
Of a man untouched by love—broken
Thing wetting himself in a room, lights off,
Music on, because it is easier to be keeled
By a promise: the musician in the song
Of his own grieving. The gung-ho peace
In the quiet. Brother, I wish you would release
That pain. Like a libation, the image sacrificed,
For your own life. Remember the boy
Your aunties cleaned with their tongues?
That libation in honor of the man
That boy would become. Misfortune
Is a man impregnating himself
With the ennui of his inability to kill
That which is required to be saved.
Consider Zagreus torn to pieces and consumed.
The heart of Zagreus swallowed and spit
Out as Dionysus. See how promise dies
In the throat like yearning, only to come out
Alive in the room of a lover’s mouth, fertile
& strong like a bottle of wine
Indulged by time. I have nailed a sign
On my door: ‘Too stupid to not be loved.
If you came to teach me another song
From the hymnal of burning brothers
Under giraffe-vocal-chord practice,
Leave a message, I don’t use those anymore.’
Note: Contains a riff off fragments from Ntozake Shange’s Sorry.
Art by Fons Heijnsbroek on Unsplash.
Grace.
Fire flared from the woman’s legs,
& there was the sky in a bucket
To extinguish everything. Allow it.
Keep the trials of tradition, but
Release its consumption. This is
Not about you, my baby brother.
In the quiet room, the darkness
Touched you, & there was love.
An unknown draft in the damp.
I do understand the undertaking.
A taste of fire to raze, even just
A little, the cold desire for dying.
This is not about you, brother.
I, too, gave myself permission
As a man kept me under a river.
Said, I would drink the whole
River without his arms around
Me. Dear brother, I was afraid.
Of the river, the man, more so.
So, I held that fear like a stick,
The end, amicably penetrating.
I know, I know, I know, I know.
Such conscious attitude into
Surrendering, & yet, how much
Do boys know about anything?
I think of that man in the river,
& other times, of the woman.
At the altar, Jesus says, abandon
It. Hug your brother, then reside.
My brother, I salute our survival.
Art by Susan Wilkinson on Unsplash.
Stir.
I feel the warmth of your hand. The eyes of it
Bothering by a window. You ask of the red dirt,
& you lay stumped when I tell you how we’ll use it.
I am at the end, so I hold my breath short,
Imprison the funny feedback of the day.
You are soft, as long as I don’t
Take anything out of it. You leave a song
Behind, & it gets horrific the moment I make
A tune of it. This is not how disgust works.
Subtle sunlight, small stain, wild warmth in-between.
Unlike the servants, I know how this will end.
You will ask everything of me, I will land
My mouth in the dirt. Relish in its honesty.
You will place your palm on my cheek,
& I will curse it. Curse you for your carelessness.
The end, rather much like the beginning.
Salted & fermented fish—perfume, past & present.
I began useless in my response to you,
We have become useless to each other.
