I first saw you in the old city cemetery.
You were mourning an Italian pilot
whose name you loved,
and whose crumbling headstone
you could not find
in the moss and dead leaves.
You found me instead.
With a cold razor to kiss me open
you stretched over me,
knuckles kneading my ribs.
Let me die for you, stranger, I said,
as that other stranger died
a century ago.
I sliced the line of
hidden skin under your left breast.
The only way to keep warm
was to press together
like flowers in a book,
my sap entering your tree.
We let them wrap us in gauze
around the shoulderblades that
erupted from your back, fairy wings,
white on pink and blue.
The cloth bound us tight,
your chin in my collarbone
the tip of my nose in your warm ear
and we prayed to be healed of all wounds,
to be safe from winter wind,
from our longing for death by dogfight.
Gentle thunder pulsed between our ribs
as mud and leaves wrapped into us too,
making us a starter pack of seeds.
We knew that at long last we had
permission to be still.
Spun tightly, our bodies softened.
Hot and cool threads of mycelium,
pink and lavender, tickled our
bones, our muscles, the inside of our eyes.
And after we climbed a papyrus stem
with our six legs,
netted glitter wings
pushed from our hard skin.
The wings of us,
now that we were a single dragonfly
for our new body to turn solid—
solid enough anyway, to sparkle,
electric, above the soft pond in summer.
About the Creator
Filmmaker, writer, drummer. Guinness World Record holder for air-drumming.
Poems published in Tablet Magazine: arigoldfilms.com/poems
Watch my movies on Amazon or at AriGoldFilms.com.
Follow on IG, Twitter: @AriGold
Drum podcast: HotSticks.fm
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