magdala dipped in the black stream

by mickeypamo

[cut black]

He had brought her lines of dialogue, keen soliloquies and marvelous quotes. He told her the power of his known, lips pitched in green words. Caul-blasted and prescient, it ran a blade hunk-lump-blown into her. In dank-like prayer of Celtic prat he crayed, wrapping her when loose to mica-tight confession lone and long. She asked and it got her, gave her, took her.

He trenched at her, tilling her heels of their downward sane, veining each flit. She twisted and blenched a cable of cord. A crane of thought-blood tilted her to most bowls, laughing, laughing, sank herself down and ranged need-picks for herself. Built in the treetop spin, he favored air, down, down in a such-most, lifted her wound-wide. He was the doing, the doing. She named him a man, prayed a dream-plow.

It was all one way, his charge forward, ripping forest curves with ease and silence. And her taking, taking in. She wrapped loose then strong, slain pulse reeling him to the suck of legs, hollow belly down, down. He can’t watch but able to touch the dream place beneath the skullbelly. Large and torn, he sames the bones like milkweed pills and she swallows it. She swallows the sound of roundness and turns it up skybellied and orange. Rounding bell of earth rubbles to rich. She pulls and pulls and same-such call, calling, sails habit-full, chilling the old, danking the rocks of lungs. He came natal and brain and believed. She pleads never before and never again like bones of faring and home, yes, pillaged home. Rumpled lead and fixtures melting into each, she wept for the other, pontooned.

[blue fib]

Curled, lazed into safety of no, Yes, he said, I am scared. Wakening that hooded snake to crawl up her spine, to whisper at her neck, lying there, It’s ok, It’s ok. And this is the seed he left her, in her house. Then to disappear, vanish backward, tail first.

Ho God, press her back abrain of thought which fills pasted past again and again and a repetition of those, cracking like a box of groats: ordinary socks flung underfoot to try her.

Galloping pale to change, liveried loose, soldered and foot giggled. Sold.


[laundry baled]

Fled off the deck of bells and creased to find no one but herself dangering the rizzled rim of sainted air . . . the fears of rolling pitch amid cough dreams, that’s the angle post . . . no real danger . . . spilling in dreamsafe and soft of pitfalls, pillows, one with a good smell of familiars, sewn pieces that aren’t blank of airy her . . . but her call, her call, abray in the night.

Slighted edge of pins. Daze fell to and raised pain in fields of sad corn. Now, blithery mouthed, she worries deep hands will reach her, lift her sore and crusted to a plateau and leave her there, shelfed out of fire . . . O girl, O fled chair she dreamt of much and bet it left you time then this time, stone beam.


[emeralds chipped green]

What he did creviced the land of yesterday—a union half met by half. So down past lame but fixed to find, that is her resolve. The pop-flung girl she is swipes into hellpits of courage. She leads it in, fluid and seen, blues the edges and sifts into the middle—she saves the realm, pushes it, sits fat in it

—stone-lapped tears tearing fire in great sheets throw her on her back. Blazes of rarity sand, O sand, yes sanded up to toes and knees and rose in a heat of favor to her, yes, to magdala, fine girl, lost on demon chains, ache-aged and fine set in stone rings.


[hushed rocks]

A long wail, Welsh as the peal of a bell, clanged its memory round to blackened glass, infinitely snaked a shape of last things. Failed but dated and sore of fissure, only she magdala called down green rings to conal hollows:

“O sweet evangeline nomad, tramping and whoring backward in damp dead space, nail your fear to the dead and old. Kneel plans are lost. Deem care and sane to the river’s edge. Dip in emerald light. Dilate this cascade and drink it. She is.”

Still was, still was, she will bleach to needy lips and still she rolls final. Sand ran change to change and she was there, honed as a child, sleek, oiled and slipped the daylight to essences. Sun had become that and she was not missing for the first time. Henna nipples fan out winged and air-washed. Then night leaned in amber syrup and she shone.

She blessed his distance.

It burned red.

It was near.