the dual natures of the nymph

pt.1 paper cuts deep

I can’t think

I lay out three knives
one copper, one aluminum, one steel
and serrate the tendons
white worms of sinew sheer and give way

let’s not be dainty

these are not euphemisms
parables and short lessons
to inspire and guide your life

we’re talking about a girl
no more than 12
they carve out her genitals
- the clitoris and labia
with no anesthetic

the remaining flesh they sew together
with six stitches from wild thorn
and a short thread
tied off at both ends

her legs are lashed and bound
till muscle rots and flesh fuses to bone
and they cut a small opening
a corridor for urine and menstrual blood

the unclean forever unclean

her body is not her own
and the wound is reopened
only for the pleasure of men

perhaps we all die alone

pt.2 the destruction of the personality

I listen

all ears
all eyes and nerve endings
straining for your breath

it is the silence
the lift and thrust of distant mountains
black cows going to water across yellow grass
a campfire of refried beans
blackened fish
a can of roasted coffee beans

I sleep with a black dog
and a man who craves
as much sex as he can get

he is young
slim and slightly-built

desired

the dog is cool and silent
its breath controlled
as if chosen for this moment
this intake, this exhalation

at night beside you
I make kissing fish-lips on my pillow
and that provides a certain measure of release

later the dancing begins
around us
and a softly moaned
pentameter
lets me sleep

pt.3 to suffer, when it seems near

You’ve come to me before
come and gone
come and gone

unaware of the consequence
the longing
the cut slow and deeper with each passing
a confirmation that pain is real and can be felt
a confirmation that there is still blood to be let

every action carries reaction
equal, opposite
electric and violent
the sandpaper rub of your crossing
generates a static charge

we become stale bread
immune to the lure of heroic madness
immune to soft blanket folds
and warlike erotic feats

The hidden bite
The swollen bite
The point, the line of points
The coral and the jewel

The line of jewels
The broken cloud
The biting of the boar

all the places that can be kissed
can also be bitten:
your shoulder, breast
you upper lip, interior mouth
and eyes

as you stand to leave
and dress yourself without a word
I hang this charm around your neck
like a weight
for good luck

like holding my breath as I pass
under the water
from this world to the next

like filling my pockets
with the stones beside the stream
and following her in

like the moment before I think
- the moment I only feel
as something scrapes my knee
and my breath escapes
and the lightning touches gently down

perhaps my drowning is a consequence
of certain previous miscalculations

or perhaps I’ve been dying all along

pt.4 the less and more arcane

we calibrate these instruments
the sigils circle, a wafer of wood
stamped with images
and strung on black cord

clockwise: the boar
the black dog
the running man and drowning
the black hill cut in cross-section
the barrow mound
white grubs massed and boiling in darkness

I hear your heartbeat slow
I hear the soft wind
bearing spirits of the dead

the passing clouds are cased in ice
and we chip slowly at their edges

we are all gods
and we will all die at our own hands