chariot of the sun is a snake

The chariot of the sun is a snake, my beloved
By Rino
Palmani

What gifts do you bring, my lady of
sugarcoated sorrows?
Hands that mould mountains; eyes that
father battle-axes,
mouths that form hymns as they linger on
your paper cheek;
seduce me as you take off your
earring,
let me feel you breathe beneath my palm for three
seconds,
your submission shall be rewarded
no longer
were my nights moistened by your ghost
until you let me in
while your blouse was undone
neither bourbon nor vodka can
slake my thirst
let me do as I will with you
let me
farm you and you shall bear a blessed harvest.
Let my hands be
as reverent and insatiable mappers of your hair
your breasts
and your limbs, lay with me,
let my lips sanctify your skin
with murmured incantations,
staccato psalms. I want you. Like
a bull pricked by blades,
I am maddened and made to rise by my
longing. When you leave,
I want to destroy myself in your
name. Call me Phaeton;
the chariot of the sun is a snake, my
beloved
it stings me and I run to you, keeper of my
apocalypse.