Waiting for the Darkangel

I.

Oh, let us wait together
never speaking
not a word–
while the silence gathers cobwebs,
and the shadows gather silence–
and the moon comes up to take a gasp
of night, then sinks
into cold clouds again.

Take my hand;
I’ll keep you.
While the spider-stars spin cobwebs
in the silence–
and the shadows–
and the cobwebs send their tendrils out
to trap and drown the moon.
Take a breath. He’s coming soon.

II.

The Darkangel, they say, is
most beautiful.
They say he is dark as death and
fair as silver.
Don’t look into his eyes, they say.
His eyes
they are
silver-plated pebbles.
Hard and frozen
Pebbles from an icy brook far under
earth, where dwells
no living thing.
I am no living thing, trapped in his eyes
for my heart has stopped.
His beauty–
so cold, so icy there’s an icicle in my
–his beauty is like winter, snow drifting–
heart, stabbed me in the heart with an icicle
while I was
–over a half-buried skeleton, bones–
gaping, caught (ensnared) in his (pebble) eyes.
–turned to silver in the moonlight. Silver
Silver-plated pebbles, silver-plated bones
Silver-plated heart can’t beat
(They say he turns your heart to silver
and locks it up
a treasure, in his realm far under
earth, where dwells
no living thing. For he himself has none.)
Oh, I am gone. I am no one.

III.

There are
frozen hearts twinkling in the ceiling.
A starscape. Moonless night,
sunless morning.  Far below there lies a river
where silver hearts bob and
roll among the pebbles.
The pebbles
they are his eyes.
These are his hearts.
The Darkangel sits in a corner–
weeps tears of ice through his fingers–
weaves cobwebs of fear in the corner–
studded with stars. A starscape.
It feels a hundred years since we stood
and watched the moon drown
in the shadows–
and the silence–
and clasped each other’s hands;
heavy with love–
heavy with fear.
Now I lie on my back, watch the stars
watch the hearts.
And I don’t even know if I’m breathing
And I don’t know if my heart is beating
but the pebbles are rolling. The ice-tears
are falling. Chink-chink. Chink-chink.
Heartbeat.
Heartbeat.
Heartbeat. I breathe. Tears fall.
I cannot feel at all.

IV.

The river was his mother
his father, perhaps, the moon;
Did he suckle at a breast of ice
send infant wails into the dark
hear lullabies of fear from stars
and watch his father drown?
Who can say? Who can know?
Here where silver waters flow
and the rolling pebbles make the only sound.
Did he grow beyond the light
shaping garments of the night
with his heartless chest not beating
and his lungs no longer breathing
catching stars with cobwebs spun of fright?
Oh, who could love a heartless thing?
though his face is full of beauty
and his hair is made of moonbeams
and his icy fingers weave
cobwebby nightmares out of tears.
My heart is
pounding. Heartbeat.
Tear-drop.
Do I dare to love him
for his beauty? For his tears?
In the clouds his father’s dying
I am lying
while his mother whispers secrets to the air.
Hearts embedded in the ceiling
like spiders in a web.
How they shine.
Which will be his? Will it be mine?

V.

I would rather die loving.
If I cannot love him for his beauty, I
will love you for your constance.
My love, I
miss you and I
hope and know you missing me.
See, I can love with a heart not silver and
as long as I love I am alive.
Maybe I can pull him down
drown him in my love for you, deeper
until bubbles alone come to the surface.
A fitting death. A drowning–
The father’s moon-drowning and the son’s
lovesilvercold drowning in bubbles of
constance, bubbles of the way your hand
fits mine and all the world is ours on a
sun-filled afternoon.
If
I could drown him, my dearest, in
those sunny days we’ll never have, our
love would be a sacrifice worth making.
Remember me, love, on those
not-quite-autumn mornings, those
wipe-your-eyes it’ll be all better soon oh
my love
Those days.
I dedicate my death to you.
No, to love.
For you are love and we are love together.
Here he comes. If this is right
let me fill his lungs with light.

Fin.

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