Jessica Swanson
Inamorata
I suppose it’s a terrible thing—
to never be called pretty, that is
or beautiful or lovely
I suppose it’s terrible, really
to be reduced to piecemeal parts:
legs, eyes, teeth, breasts, ass
as if describing “nice” cuts of meat
prodded to the front of cold storage,
inching ever closer to the sell-by date
that must be sold for stew or a roast
cuts to be donated—little more than scraps tossed
to apex predators that groan and pace,
who yearn for slivers of what once was:
the delicacies of youth
(now animal rot)
and I suppose it must be terrible to become a temperature, a season:
hot, four months at best
if you’ve mastered body language in translation
the deliberate placement of limb upon extraneous limb:
hand and thigh and thigh and hand,
dragging each other towards an unobtainable oasis
that fades into nothing after the storm hits—
just souls exhaled into unfamiliar bodies
slick with sweat and too-high expectations
and is it so terrible, really, to be fine about it all
really
to love and be loved as a pit viper hunts:
nocturnal, patient
to ache for phantom parts
in the arms of someone else,
to close your eyes and become
the devil and eve synergized
for just a moment:
full of warmth and affection
for a soon-to-be jealous god
with an intimate understanding
of what it’s like to be without
Nephilim
you may think it counterintuitive,
but i understand completely:
the descent of snakes, of dragons, of angels
into willing beds—who shift from scale or spirit to skin
who yearn for the degradation of a mortal love,
a sweet and finite affection that disturbs the endless flow of time
(if only for a nanosecond)
a love that manifests in tangled hands and bitten tongues,
fervent prayers offered into the napes of far-too-delicate necks—
prayers meant for a formless godhead too busy
to listen to the cries and shrieks of its own creation
and so they come, these apocalyptic beasts
with claws, with wings, with arms outstretched
and glinting in the sunlight—not summoned at all,
but beckoned by the lonely staccato of a heartbeat
from a too-empty room where solitude creeps on little paws
fire within recognizes fire without
someone must play the role of a gentle rain
in the dead heat of a summer night,
conjuring the language of smoke
the phoenix in the ash
and so it is for us, my love:
prying into each other with reluctant fingers
for some tiny bit of self-assurance
we are gods in our own timeline
with ragged breath and tangled sheets
i begin at your end
where you begin, i end
sweaty, rumpled divinity
fae wife
like you, i dream of locked doors
and long-burnt paths,
stained glass blotting out the sun
as god above, so iron below
and i know ribbons have no real place,
no purpose—save one
to tie the bouquet tightly, just so
congratulations, nature conquered
into a little bundle of red and blue and—
white dresses and garters to hide the fading pink of scars:
evidence of when we threw ourselves into the dirt,
tore madly at each other and something beyond
much deeper still than once-broken nails
not claws, now buffed and lacquered over
some small thing more akin to the erratic
beat of a heart near death or way that a
snake opens and closes its mouth, crying,
“oh, i am no longer a part of my self. put me back.
put me back. put me back how i am supposed to be.”
more muscle memory than anything else
and maybe we are snake consciousness:
all self, no body
at least, no perfect body
lest we become monsters
dragons in miniature, all feathers and talons
and bloodshot eyes from having too much to drink
petechiae, rather—the glint of scales in sunlight
and like you, i hope for some feral lover
to drag me from my bed
no civilities, no pleasantries needed
just calloused hands tight around my wrists
and the promise of freedom in exchange
for some semblance of a name in the dark of the early morning
and i, too weak to knowingly shoulder the burden of immortality,
will gaze into nearly-familiar eyes reflecting what’s left of the moonlight
and for a flicker of a moment, i will allow myself to be the moon:
soft and round and fading
and i will go the way we were meant to, you and i:
not dragged at all—simply carried
down sunlit paths flush with wild roses
Jessica Swanson is a librarian, a writer, and a tired millennial. She holds degrees in English Writing and Library and Information Science. Jessica also has a fondness for cats, cheese, and hot tea. She dabbles ominously in the creative arts. Follow her writing adventures on Twitter at Cooljazsheepie or on Instagram at everystupidstar.
