An Aztec Pyramid Called Out To Me

~ and I wept~

Flowers and tiny creatures — Vanitas (second half of 17th century) by Abraham Mignon

Wrapped in torpor’s musk

you stir and sigh, mutter thickly,

voice like soot and licorice,

then silence settles on us

like a rain of feathers.

And I wonder how

wordlessness can be so eloquent.

What are these quasi-dreams

that blow you about in snatches,

teardrops over a broken toy perhaps,

now a passage through

mists of a mother’s prayers,

then back to honey

dunes of my shoulders.

Passion plays havoc

with time and space,

I become a solar wind

shed by a generous sun

and settle in a dusky valley,

the cleft of your chin.

My insides heave and ache

with dreaded

premonitions —

these moments will end.

Once I climbed an Aztec pyramid.

When I reached the top,

grandeur consumed me