The cold smooth mettle on my palms feels good.
Who’d settle for less? Resilience, brilliant.
Brittle determination, once again.
If at first you’re not succinct, keep trying.
How hard can it be to love a goddess?
Through this powdery mist of calcite dust,
smiling skulls, sentries o’er the center aisle,
chatter and yap about what would’ve been,
lost in the din of her banshee wailing,
as she fritters and frets at the altar.

I still have half my lives, should I worry?
She mallets a xylophone with femurs,
marimba riffs echo in the belfry,
a little daft, cold drafts still, music drifts,
spirals about her, world-beaten dervish,
hungry, weary, oh . . . Oh! Is that the spot?
Spirits resort to ancient tongues, archetypes
press themselves against her stained glass, her apse,
serpentine, mitochondria two-step,
bandannas, denims, and ten-gallon hats.

She bucks the bull without spilling a drop,
her grand cru, a select, distinguished press
comes after the crush of the late harvest,
sweet pulp taken from just below the skins,
careful to remove it from the gross lees
early to avoid the nose of sulfur
that sometimes comes from delaying the heart
too long; let gravity do its magic.
Get the white smokes going to purify
bodies, their bare ass atop cold marble.

I will shake you till your demons break loose,
blow into your lungs, straight through your nostrils,
in sweeping expanses, shift your tempo
to beat with the rhythms of the garden,
celebrate each uptick of new-found grace
in domed silence, ignoring the vanquished
who try hard to detract me from purpose,
as I slip and slide on the viscera
of your most recent spoils, your satyrs
wink and take bets if whether I’ll be next.

© Carlos Chagall, 2013