dream of rimbaud

I am a widow, could be charleville could be anywhere,
move behind the plow, the fields, young arthur lurks
about the farmhouse (roche?) the pump the artesian
well, throws green glass alias crystal broken,
gets me in the eye.

I am upstairs, in the bedroom bandaging my wound, he
enters, leans against the four-poster, his ruddy cheeks,
contemptuous air big hands. I find him sexy as hell,
how did this happen he asks casually, too casually.
I lift the bandage, reveal my eye a bloodied mess;
a dream of Poe. he gasps.

I deliver it hard and fast, someone did it. you did it.
he falls prostrate, he weeps he clasps my knees. I grab
his hair, it all but burns my fingers, thick fox fire,
soft yellow hair, yet that unmistakable red tinge,
rubedo. red dazzle, hair of the One.

Oh jesus I desire him. filthy son of a bitch, he licks
my hand. I sober, leave quickly your mother waits, he
rises, he’s leaving, but not without the glance, from
those cold blue eyes, that shatters, he who hesitates
is mine, we’re on the bed. I have a knife to his smooth
throat. I let it drop, we embrace. I devour his scalp,
lice fat as baby thumbs, lice the skulls caviar.

Oh arthur arthur. we are in Abyssinia Aden, making love
smoking cigarettes, we kiss, but its much more, azure,
blue pool, oil slick lake, sensations telescope, animate,
crystalline gulf, balls of colored glass exploding,
seam of berber tent splitting, openings, open as a cave,
open wider, total surrender.

-patti smith-

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