Sometimes, in passion's wake
his lover tells stories,
something whispered low against his belly,
something sighed into his mouth:
A casket,
a stretch of barren years,
the robes of mourning rent,
a new kingdom born of the the dying.
He remembers allegory and allusion,
understands this to be
a truth,
their truth
that binds them close and sweet
like linens soaked in frankincense:
Each in turn has been
The Overseer of the Mysteries,
breaching the body in jackal hunger,
in sharp-toothed despair.
Each in turn has Opened the Mouth
to breathe the soul back in.
He feels the words twist and turn
against his skin, the prayer
invoked and inviolate and knows
he will spend a lifetime gathering
each scattered piece, each broken sherd,
rebuilding slowly the man who was once
A king of heaven, burning bright;
loving always the lord
of twilight he has become.
In his own body,
he holds his
lover's heart,
so that it might never
be lost again.
