The
Unseen
It
was.
as it were:
a magnificent obsession.
She
thought. She dreamed;-- she woke
every morning with the crushing weight
of her lungs as she felt his being drawn
over her
irresistibly.
And
when he saw her, he met her
like an old friend, clueless
to the vitality that he brought
to
every breath pouring out
of her body. He was not
her
Beautiful but she would love
him,
behind the placid face that looked
back at him, so much love that could
not
break through.
The
stinging came, the drowning
in her throat and eyes,
the
semisuspended stone
in her breast--that would not feel.
The
incomplete
living,
the
drawn out scanning of horizons for
the one day when she would see him and
watch
him pass her by again, oblivious.
She
had come to the desert, for the expanse
of horizon was endless
and the pulsing heat tricked
the mind into seeing what one wanted. And M,
M
wanted:--Beautiful. He would come
to her in mirage, if not in body, and lie
with
her in oasis of springs, if not
in spirit.
She but had to walk a hundred
steps more, to the next dune, look into
the next
expanse of white sand and whiter heat,
look back
into a trail of black rubble,
to the left,
to
the right,
he
would be there.
A
cactus up ahead.
Tall, twisted. With gentle thorns
at the top and long enticing spikes
at the base. M stooped to puncture the tough skin.
She
found a black shard lying
among the black desert floor and pierced
through
the dry exterior into the sticky pulp. It oozed
down
into her mouth, her lips coaxing it
to
come faster. She sat in its shade,
closing her eyes
to the light but seeing light
nonetheless.
She clasped herself round the cactus and
pulled herself up
and swayed with weariness towards the next
dune.
A
silhouette,
a
fluttering haze stood, then descended
the dune, sending up little whirlpools in
its path.
A
figure, thinner than human, and energized
by the fetid heat. Through the shimmer
it
came,
dressed in fluttering ribbons, a hood,
blowing softly about him,
no
wind.
He
carried a staff in one hand,
made
from a branch of a Joshua tree. On the
staff ,
a bell toned like a jewel. At his waist,
a
bag. He approached.
His
fingers were delicate,
fine as icicles.
His skin was iridescent and beads of water
clung like warts.
His
skin was silver blue and it frosted vaporously against the heat.
The eyes were gaunter than she
had
remembered.
His remarkable eyes had sunk
into the deep sockets, underneath were rings
upon
rings
of shadow.
His sinuous body was now
all tendon, a gelatinous ice blue. Yet his fine nose
remained,
unmarked, still high
and majestic.
His lips were easy, fine, and slightly
filled,
from which issued a gentle stream of
water.
M
drew back;
he was not there for
her. The desert lay
about them, forsaken
for miles around, but M knew
he
could not be coming for her.
For
the drip-
-ping sun,
the stripping heat,
the exfoliating sands,
but
not for her. Never
for M.
But
still it came. It lifted a hand and
reached
out a long, excessive finger. He touched M’s throat.
It burned. M opened her gaped mouth wide
and hungrily, but the creature merely
pressed
his lips to M’s throat and bathed her skin in
his frosty liquid. Her body was being quenched
while her throat cut her like knives. At last,
he stuck a finger into her open mouth
and she
suckled the cool finger gaggingly. He slid it down her throat,
she,
greedily sucking the beads of moisture
from the skin when he retreated his
finger.
She
stepped back into the needles
of the cactus but did not heed, she was
swinishly nursing the liquid
that poured
like vapor from his lips. He stepped
forward and she drew back
sharply,
piercing herself deeper still.
Her skull, her arms,
her legs were staked almost cleanly
through.
“Have
you been well, Beautiful?
Have you had a contented life of love
and family and child and wife? Is there still nothing
that I can give you,
my love still
so meager to you.
You
see I burn in hell for you. Where else
is there endless horizon, limitless
possibility
of you within the next few steps? Do you think
I could have subsisted closed in, with the
fact
of
no you
and no open window?
My free expanse, my haven
of dream, my desire hazed, forgotten in the
torpor
of
unbearable sun blasts. See, what I
have,
I
have you here, you cannot pass me by-
-unless you prefer isolation
even
to me. Pass me by friend,
I shall be over the next heap of
sands.”
She sank her fingers into the mesh of
tendons
and gripped the cords between them.
It
hummed and strung
where she razed her fingertips past. And wrapped
her entire being around his legs.
He
walked her into the stakes.
“A
wish, M, what will it be?” it toned from its open mouth.
“A
star, Beautiful, a bright shining star,
a burning furnace in the sky,
that will stay
until we pass unto other worlds, and
I pass
into this star, and see you not, and
pass away, a sun
that will keep when you come to it, and
find me not,
and look for me elsewhere in far
remoter worlds,
an
explosion that ends when we finally meet in its center
and maintain it.”
He
pointed a finger to some unseen
whiteness in the sky. “Behold, your star! Falling to you
with
the speed of its light, burning for you
to reach you here, traversing end to end
to serve its temple.” And soon
a light point in the sky, whiter than the
sky
itself,
appeared,
glowing lighter,
faintly roaring,
expanding like an explosion,
and
shrinking like an immersed fireball,
it arced through the sky losing size and
weight
with its fearless projection, it
landed,
tumbled, rolled, and gave
a
faint glimmering murmur.
“It
bids you love, M. It has come
a long way, for your intent for it was
satisfactory.”
M
struggled to depale herself
from the spikes but could not.
Beautiful went to fetch the shimmering
rock,
it flickered, it sang unearthly tunes,
it cried without reason.
“It
is still a child, M, care for it
well.”
He placed it in her outstretched palms,
it
singed her hand and the sizzling of flesh
could be heard above the rock’s twinkle of
lights and
din of laughter. M lurched forward, faint from the pain.
“A
wish, my M! Again!” Beautiful demanded.
“A
drop of water, from the heavens, one drop
so pure and singularly wet,
that it quenches this sun
in my hands, so that it may never
burn out before our coming.
So
that it may
be submerged in comfort
until it must
burn eternally.
Let the water be its temporary hold, a haven
for slumber.” And Beautiful
pointed toward the west
and a clap
and
a roll broke
the lining of the sky
and
a drop from rains of other worlds came flying, flying through
the atmospheres and flew into M’s hand,
engulfing the star, putting it to sleep
until
its awaited day.
M
fell forward,
the pain subsided sharply.
“A
wish M! What is your desire!” Beautiful
beckoned,
in
all his glory, stood before her, stripped of rippling robe
save his bag, a thing of tendons
and clear blue veins.
He
readied to open his pouch.
“I
will not ask! I will not
ask!”
Something brittled in M’s head and she tore
at her wrists to free them from the
stakes.
Sticky
liquid oozed out from her body. She
fell
down, burnt red from the sun
and
sweating drops of sickness.
She
pushed her face from the ground
and reached out her dripping hurts
“Will
you take me now, Beautiful?
Have I not loved my ecstasy
clean and well in my pain?”
she
kissed his lacerated feet,
the tendons spreading like sea
anemones.
He
knelt down, lifted M up,
and as one, closed her sores, yet the scars
he
maintained.
They
stayed for many weeks
in the desert, talking of their plans on
their star.
He would be there, she should never doubt.
In
the perishingly cold nights, he buried her
deep within his tendons for warmth. The drowning rains
he soaked from her face with his tendons,
the water sponging
up
into the gelatinous membrane muscles.
As
he lifted her to leave, he took
the drop of water and blessed her,
“May
you never thirst,
and be abundant in wetness,”
and reached between her. The brush
of tendon soaked up her liquid but caused
a
fresh burst to stream down between her legs.
“May
you never grow cold,” and crumbled
the rock into cremens, and the cremens
into her sex.
He drew her up, carrying her steadily across
the shifting sands and light.
In the distance, wilderness, abundant,
green, filled with movement and
tamed, calculated motions.
“My
present home. A few more days.”
He
carried her on.
M feebly
struggled,
“Leave
me here,” she said. Beautiful looked
down,
the tendons in his face took on a tighter,
more stricken tenseness.
“We
are almost there.”
“Lay
me down, love, walk on.
And when you pass to the other side
of the sand hill, I shall be
there. Whether you see
me or not, whether you know me or not.
“Look
at this face,”
windburnt and blistered by the sun,
“it
is a face of love. Look at these eyes,”
sand packed in the crevices,
“They
see only you.”
She wrapped his hands around her
cheeks,
“and
these lips, they taste every bit
of torment that issues from your
indifferent ones.
Lay me down, pass on, forget, while
you can.”
He bent and laid her softly on the sands,
folding her arms, a lump of sand for her
pillow,
the grains and wind whipping her hair
wildly,
her tears a watering for the desert.
He
turned and lifted himself to the top
of the dune
and began his descent while
all around him, a thousand Ms stood, the
Child M,
the friend and traitor, the M Wife, the love
of M,
and the M with Child, all mirages
that
Beautiful never saw.
~`*’~*~~*`~’*~~*’~~’`*~`’*~~*~~
Storied Poems
Dragon, the
Damsel, and Dreams
Ø
Haiku
- Nature - Traditional 5-7-5
Ø
Haikus
- Love - Nontraditional 5-7-5
*~~*~*~*~~~*~*~*~**~*~*~~~*~*~~~*~*~*~*~*~*
~*~Back to Home
Page and Short Poems*~*
Please send your
suggestions and poems to ssalnogard@yahoo.com
-- I would love to hear them!