pious without idols

We share the same affliction, him and I.

Two Angels in Flight, Giovanni Battista Tiepolo (1696–1770)  

this is the Passion according to the brewing storm:

I should be used to the winter

my beautiful stranger, my blue sun

if you're here, something must be wrong

the world bends under superstition

creatures retreat into the earth, distrustful 

of the very thing that gives them life

only the cats come to find me and I’m grateful 

but there is a dinner party in the next room over, the table is set

we must stay warm, stay together

but everyone is laughing in the other room

so much providence for the boys and girls with silver tongues

why so little for the rest?

I pray, I pray

for a locket of fire

or a blush of drunkenness if I'm being honest

when I'm honest, I'm selfish

so give me anything

all my best words are stolen from the greats

god, we've had this conversation before

each memory a reanimated corpse

nostalgia, my most loyal devotee

nostalgia, the cruelest necromancer

always daring to conjure the face of distant memories

but it's the only one I've known 

long enough to cherish

what do you become when you have no one to love

why do I ask questions I never want the answers to?

the infernal clockwork keeps marching 

it does not care for my unopened gifts

not the fruit cakes as they spoil and gilded sweets as they rot

what's worthwhile in a heart for sale

everyone should be ravenous in the winter

yet, it's entombed in letters that stay sealed

and a call to prayer that no longer stirs

even if I have something in me willing to burn

we all know fire casts no shadow

so give me a gift 

give me anything

even an onion so I might weep over something good

I've kept myself open to God's angels

I've stopped hanging up photographs of you and I

they're afraid of human eyes, you see

but I wonder, what good company might they offer

if they fright so easily

even the words are starting to evade me

like rattled spirits and doves

snow continues to fall

gravity promised me I would fall, too

but a ceaseless wind begs to carry me away to 

somewhere only the stars know 

while everyone rejoices at the dinner party

I've lost all my hair-ties

and there is no voice offering to braid my hair with ribbons instead

fuck it

I've never been the fondest of jazz, but I'm learning

so play that piano by ear

play it gently

I don't care if it’s Berlioz that makes me forget 

the night’s tender, eager crawl 

we share the same affliction, him and I

the sickness of life: we fall in love early and easy

we keep it as a relic for whatever darkness comes next

when I'm there

let me be still while everything spins

call it fixity or nothing at all

try to get to know me, won’t you?

don’t stop until you see bone

there is no seat for me at the dinner party

I take no offence

winter dissolves as a drawn-out sigh

and all I have left is bitter perfume, a wallet

filled with more farewells than coins and

something resembling pity, or shame, or surprise

as I find I still cast a human shadow.