Five Things said by the Deity's Lover by Goran Lowie
39 lines
Issue 2 (Spring/Summer 2023)
I.
I remember the craving of solitude.
I remember a garden blooming in a withering
tundra, unseeded earth of your flesh
hidden by swept-away brambles fed
by burning sunlight. Each of us at unease, paying,
learning, tender skin on tender skin, an endless
sky warmed by slippery hands.
II.
What is rain without breath?
Strings unbroken by hair.
Blood flowing into a river.
What are flowers in the respite of winter?
Lost desires of ancestral roots.
The crest of summer breaking
its crooked trail, revealing doorways.
III.
A bird sings, reaping the light.
It drinks from the curve
of your hands, kissing the
pulse of your humanity.
Its talons pierce your bones, burrowing deep.
Your skin there is so thin,
like a page torn from an
old book.
Its eyes linger in your reflection, sensing your fear.
You know a god-devourer
when you see one and call
for my aid, my teeth and
claws shredding it whole.
IV.
You drink from my words, unrelenting.
They contain the water of rivers and
the seeds of the wind. How long do they
linger on your lips? How many times
do you lick at them , hearing my words
echoing centuries later, stolen thoughts
given by choice?
V.
I wish lightning into your heart.
I tune the day to dawn.
I set you free and climb your wings
Time screams on and the birds
are loud with laughter.