REVERSE MEA CULPA: AN UNPENITENT PROSE POEM PENNED IN A STORM OF PERSEIDS

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“I am not sorry,” I say, and the night sky blues, blossoming in the face of my brazen unapology.  It pours forth meteors, mertails without the maids, Perseids who render me penitence-less, still unable to eschew the love of you.  Like me, they are just bits of burning dust, streaking space for a time, and then dying to become nothing something everything, all I am I will be I was, when I slipped my hand into yours and saw, shining behind the disguise of your eyes, liquid mercury, and its silvery churning burned me unnumb.

To lick it was poison, but oh, the light.

I cannot say to the mirrored moon’s face that I regret loving you. Blasphemy?  Maybe, of all the things in this world that should be blasphemed.  Blasphemy of the tragedy of short, shimmerless lives shuddered out in silent agony under the merciless shadows of lies.

The God I worship names herself Truth, wears sandals woven from webs of love.  Her eyes shine like mine, like yours, like the mercury that drips from shattered light bulbs.  My God blazes heaven with her smile.  My God calls papery oaths woven from greed vile.  My God recognizes only marriages born before the storm that gave birth to the cosmos.

Tonight, I will wine and dine the sky as it spits stars at me, drinking and thinking of the time you stood strong, staring into my eyes, not caring who saw.  Once upon a shrine, I was a seed falling into the soil of your soul, finding good ground, sprouting there, greening and growing petals the colors of winter wind.  Swallowed by your eyes, I said, “This is how it feels to die,” and I meant it the way they say sunbeams slide their tongues along your spine when you finally close your eyes and succumb to the briny dreams of dirt.

I am never alone.  The wind carries your lips, and they kiss me without ceasing.

All of my wishes have come true.  I knew liquid mercury love, and it burned me.

I didn’t want to be a writer when I grew up.  I just wanted to be a teller of you.

The only fresh thing I have to say is your face.

You are the one thing no one but me has ever seen, shining like you do, all silvery blue, when you reveal yourself to me, naked under your clothes, wearing fire.  They’ve all seen the clichéd, gray wire of horizon that splits the ground from the sky.  They’ve all seen the moon bobbing high over seersucker clouds, longing for lightning.  But they’ve never seen your eyes looking at me saying, _____, which is the only thing I’ll never write, the secrets you told me the night I dreamed I died, crucified by rainbows, when everyone else thought they were alive, living colorless lies, mortalized Eves, deadened not by their longing for wisdom, but by their pining for Ugg boots, wandering pagan temples wearing the skulls of slain animals, tempting beer bonging Adams with pornos and plasticized fruit.

In a desert of blinding white lies, you are my verdant truth.  The root of you grows sharp into the earth, into me.  It strangles the death from my neck, bashes me to life.

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