Love Is His Own Avenger

The horseradish breath of dawn is waking to face a wealth of impoverished lovers playing in his dewy bed, and I among them, am muttering something imperceptible—of fortune importunately misspent, like youth annihilating itself in every kiss—and I motionless, am lying as though lifeless, facing fate’s stench within an inch of my midst.
          “Kiss me,” calls dawn, groping with rolled, fig leaf-thick fingers, every crevice in the sunken valley of his duvet cover—a dusting of satin and ivory circumstance, wedding decadence to deviance in sheets of pearly peach, on his meadow bed we each have shared since the solstice.
          A torment of men tossing, ending up here when, for seven unlit months, they sauntered into it and I, following, wintered in the embrace of a deposed nobleman, uncertain if his ghost-flush face was dignified, deified, or the pale reflection of my father’s fall from his apotheosis.
          Light swallows skies and darkness exercises its right to defy fire, riding flame in choreographed flight. On nights which endure burning in windowless worlds for what could be thought of as solace—periods of no hours, nor days—I take to naming him for conquerors as he lays in me his line, his men falling in time.
          Fishing with fists and thrusts—cock and tongue—my itinerant tenants must be sowing acres of unarticulated words, thirsting as he fills, each defiling me. I lick into his nearing ears, past his draped eyes, names like Alexander, Cæsar, Napoléon, and every mononymously mythical man my mind can exhume.
          A consumption of insurrection lifts my man’s ego and dusk body, falling like a heavy scent as nightly—and in this winter, night is always—he tops me—conquering my partly shattered and wholly ancient vessel like it is not flesh of clay, but a specimen of excavated pottery.
          A poverty of impositions unanswered part the part of me properly chaste—as if denying them, my unnamed companion, my legendary champion, can evade abiding and admitting my humanity. I wanted to be his priority, to flourish in the opportunity afforded our shared captivity—yet why can he not acknowledge me?
          Hibernation, punctuated casually with clockwork collisions of varying intensity, comes to be the meaning of our winter’s meaningless misery. Inside my mind’s field, made of organs and of breath, he shone the way foreigners’ faces shine on disembarking refugee flights; from within, I felt lit, as this stranger, once of good breeding, had bred into me every of his secrets, without any reason.
          Darkness captivates me since, as I lie still, sprawled like polar flesh on an ice floe of a bed, this page whiter, icier, more permanent than that which complacency thawed. Since the sun rose—and my nobleman rose—seeking to journey west, where his heredity would not yet have been deposed, I wake alone; pouring verse into prose, painting this smear like some summons on fractured monument—fallen stone—calling him back here, to our cavern home. Love is his own avenger.