Panthea’s Promise


A silence in the room drags your corpse, evaporated now,
and mixed with the sand, to my fingertips as gritty smog.
Though a tomb houses bones, the air contains your will.
I will sit, Aurelius, I will sit, wilted before that skeletal house.

When you cut your hair, upon my passing words, notes,
beards having been the shadow of fear and cloaking, you,
fully armored by chest and foot, arms akimbo, wooed me.
A simple heart, won by a penetrated, vulnerable nakedness.

No flattery taken, I am a simple fate, a lover of actions true,
yours, a silent tribute speaking legions in that one cutting.
You bared your face to me, showed me my own eyes’ gaze
mirrored in more than a thousand words piled high may bless.

I will sit, Aurelius, I will sit and wait in the earth, in my recluse,
and silk touch the grapple of his hair stubbled face-memory
blown through to my skin’s reaching, yearning whispered sigh.
I will sit, Lucius, lying by, bathed in sun-dried leaves’ caress.

Married though you be, Aurelius by your side provoking state,
a heart, at Smyrna you shaved for me, seeking limbic highs,
is never buried unceasingly beaten, trampled in dusty smoke.
I will sit, Lucius, as I do and be the pulsing-pure love’s undress.   

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