Black Sun


“He has been called the Father of all the Gods,
but most of his children have been stillborn.”
-Saki, from The Music on the Hill

FireShot Capture - Image taken from pag_ -

She stole grapes from the market,
the darkest ones with seeds
to spit after—
the fat, purple ones with tight skin
pulled over meaty flesh,
round, ready to split.

She half-expected to pluck a spider
from the hairy stems,
to pull a small, biting thing
from the plastic nest,
and meet its small wrath. Fair trade.

She let each dark globe roll on her tongue
before she bit and tasted summer
when she sampled,
caught those seeds between her teeth
and smiled at the cameras
as she walked out.

On the road home, she met the eyes
of passersby,
of men and women in their cars
slowing to crane their necks, staring
since no one walked those roads—
especially not in the heat,
especially not alone.

She cut into the tree line
when she grew tired of the game,
found the clearing,
knelt near the black horns
that sprouted from the soil
twisted and curled
like the branches
of a small, writhen tree.

She felt insects flit around her ankles.
Knits bit into her scalp, burrowed deeper.
They buried themselves
before she could pluck them loose,
and it itched like hell.

She stilled,
listened, caught the scent
darkly rich and sweet,
tempting, as always.
And she wanted to be ripped apart.

His head rose slowly from the dirt,
chin-squared and shoulder-straight;
he blocked the light
and turned the bright rays around him nimbus.
His eyes were touched with gold,
turned blue glowing then black; his skin,
no longer stone,
turned russet.

Two lines of moisture sweated
down her throat,
seemed to race to touch dirt.
White-bodied, bulbous fungi
ringed the clearing
and seemed to bend their caps
towards where they stood.

She heard laughter somewhere
near, just beyond the thicket,
on the man-made trails.
they were part of the world
without. Always Other.
And she wanted to be ripped apart.

When the hikers passed,
she placed the bag of grapes
on the ground, near his muddy feet,
below his crooked legs
that smelled like dog,
below the sucking mouths
that writhed
with minds of their own,
and dripping tongues
that willed her to stare
as she bent
so that her face flushed dark.

The gesture was a Black Sun—
womb and tomb,
and she regretted the pieces
she’d already taken
but knew it wouldn’t really matter.

His wry expression
was not forgiveness
or gratification.
Not reverent,
the gesture was an exchange
of hungers
both great and small.