Death's Daughter (I)
I pilgrimaged to see her titanic head
floating against a skyline of shampoo bottles,
then swam up through black hair
and climbed into her ear.
a flaming thing who lived in soundwaves,
she wore cigarettes—
and oh! I thought,
how entropy became her!
Then her brain broke.
She mumbled to animals, saw faces in furniture,
and turned fearful toward the summoning light.
In her fever she forgave the rooftops,
and I, Sir Savior Worldhero,
drove deep into her madness.
I pled her down from sense precipices
and battled badge-eyed police with uniforms as skin.
It was October, and the cold wind cleaned my face.
“This is the afterlife,” she whispered,
“or the beforelife, with Stef Serpent from Eden.”
I stilled her skull
in the shadow
of the church
on the hill.
And she pulled me out of myself.
I had had other plans.
I wanted to become world dictator of words.
Trapped in the smallest of all rooms with myself,
I had been eking out a thousand-word novel,
and I had fed my mind to the clockwork of syntax,
and crucified myself on semi-colon and em-dash,
building the ruins of an idea I could live inside.
Now a new idea took me.
I had to rescue her,
I would take her over all borders,
personal and national,
up immigration mountain,
to my hermitage…
and she would give me a heart,