Reflecting Pools: A Monologue for Three Victims

Cain / Abel

Heaven licks up the flames the son lays out for it in a bowl;
as I spread my offering on its face the ox and his blood race to roll
the urge for destruction in a self-forgetting scroll. A bled mind
is also a creative one revolving like a door—it will unwind
says the Amazon in a double-helix-twined temper, fires inside her
breasted jacket; born into trouble, gardener and narrator wander together
as the sparks fly upward— Lips parched like leather; spinning her sword,
she continues unheard like a coward. The angel cuts out his tongue to censor.
Every artist has his method assayed in reflecting pools, peanut-crunching
audiences scream they don’t want it, crowds avow expertise on it, looking-not-touching,
but you swear they consented. Everyone certain this grave is what he wanted,
Green thread streaming down it, cans of laughter heaped upon it,
the side of the bed looking like a tear where his fantasy mistaken for prayer’s
causes the tailor to resent its bare, breathlessly appearing silence, unveils their
premature wear, since prenatal labelling libels every father whose
aspirations assault every cradle. Robbing the author of his title’s truths.
I planted there, on the burial mound sighing in sight of Venus, my votive
ground where I point; I lay ferial fires to entice the flower I desired to come out of
wreathes of unanswered prayers my leaden lids heavy with kohl recited;
awash with the dewy breath their muse excited, my blown-fuse brown eyes ignited
premature death coloured outside by their vision of dancing lights slighted by
the contours of their panicked lies; my brother condemning our line to untie,
if heaven will not take my work, put his offering instead of mine to satisfy, so
then the damned will have it first. Competing for a father’s shadow to outgrow.
Tilling until the weakened flesh he singed with his own stinging kiss
is willing, mine is a spirit less content to keep on living if his punishment’s
an acre, razed of debt unforgiven; implore the garden’s armed angel to cry,
you sow too far and dig nothing of worth: even the red earth in your hand runs dry;
stop spreading assumptions and get hunting, for the seed of martyrs is implanted within;
her singular breast unhidden, the angel beating itself into a leathern submission,
wept for a sister to fill in her shift for the distressing redress only drew to her
depression dug by a sinner. Hypocrites and heretics rushin’ to undo her.
I gave the giftless Amazon words dripping from a crying mouth,
a field her chest could not live on; collecting in reflecting pools touch
deprived of love, enough makes a creature, a creator, if man lets
its compensation plough the stakes out of his hands into the head and heart he gets
through the soul’s compost pyre; ashes piled into his black figure—such symbols mistaken
nigger the rake—beating asses for access to his assets, the villain relentless
and oxen senseless, making eternity take chances to make his solitude an advantage when
less of you, to walk in shit for its own sake. Waking in hell to face an hour that is endless.