Mark Budman
To My Love
When the moon turned red, I searched for you all over the house,
and broke every lock. I ran all over the city, and the earth shook
under my feet. I smashed every door with a crowbar, and shot men and
dogs. The cops fired at me, but I was impervious to pain. And as for
blood, I always liked the color.
I dove into oceans, and sunk ships and pleasure boats, but I
didn’t find you. The navy fired at me, but I was used to pain, and
the water caressed my wounds, and small fish nibbled at my toes.
To the air I took, downed birds and planes alike, caught
lightning bolts and meteors. The air force fired at me, but I had
already lost all my blood, and all my bones had turned to mush.
I climbed up the mountains, and melted glaciers and went down
mine shafts. I parted molten magma in my bare hands, but I couldn’t
find you.
They dropped an A-bomb, and, finally, mercifully, I died and went
to hell. The minions tried to restrain me, but I broke all the
chains. I ran naked, and the walls shook from my cries. I ruined
torture chambers. I broke the devil’s fingers one by one, and lifted
up the faces of the shamed, but I failed to find you.
I escaped to heaven, pushed everyone aside, and found you clothed
in air, with the red moon for a brooch, staring at me with two stars
for eyes. I said, “It’s me, don’t you know?” but you didn’t respond.
I said, “I love you,” but you closed your eyes.
I lost my guide, and withdrew inside myself as a viper’s tongue
retracts into the slither of the mouth. I’d strike you down if I
ever emerged.
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