Never Trust A Brother
For all the poems you wrote about me (the me absent from each vague, roundabout sketch), and for all the poems you bestowed upon other women—so much more flamboyant, the way you portray the tangle of legs and haunches craved—the woman you love shall depart at sunset. Poet, sure of your own glory, you shall be the one that begs on bended knee, just as every poor, green lass (who followed after you for weeks, who tore her tresses and beat her breast) has done. You shall be the one to grovel, to pray to any and all gods for my safe return to your bed. And you shall be the one to play the part of Bereft Lover as the sun submerges, the one to wonder how flawlessness could have become so flawed, because now you shall hear by candle glow each element of my seduction of your dearest roommate.
You’ve secretly suspected all along, the bud of a crush my heart beheld from the start. “Ce n’est rien,” were the words my mouth uttered, “He has always been sweet. Comme un frère.”
A brother—but one my soul yearned to sully with a smooch. More of a monk, you see, than a brother by blood. Sworn to quest for the Pure, the Sacred, the True—yet secretly he yearns, burns, prays aloud to a darkened chamber. Early to bed, early to wake. Vespers murmured. Day always breaks on a chant drawn, drowsy, from the boy’s lovely mouth. Holy holy holy. Did he not say those words as he venerated my body? We could have been together every eve of God’s blessed week, employed the language of Rome or the vulgar sounds of Anglo-Saxony as we prayed tandemly. But for me, my hours of darkness were spent, chaste, wound ‘round your absence.
That takes us up to yesterday, when you were out so late and my body lay on the couch.
J’attends. Where are you? He wonders, too, as he watches me. My lace and mesh peek out beneath my tattered robe. They are meant to be a pleasant shock for you, old man, but the sun sets and the hours march past and you do not return.
“Are you off to bed?” he asks as he crushes the candle.
“J’attends… est-ce que tu veux attendre avec…?”
“Let’s go to my room. We can play some tunes.”
Ah, no! Not music, those pleasant sounds of perfect pattern! They crawl beneath the flesh, effect those places where reason becomes null, where words lose sense. Ban these sounds from our realm, Plato! Lock us below ground, shackle us to the cave!
The door closes, the music goes on, the bulbs go out. You may assume what you please, but leave these scenes to me. You always have been a touch careless as to the facts.
He loves sacred sounds, as you know. Chants of devout accents that plead endlessly for the mercy of a just god. Were there other offenses that preyed upon my lover’s psyche, or merely me, we, our lustful approach? Perhaps he felt he ought to cleanse our souls; perhaps he felt we ought to befoul them. He knelt to pray; sweetly he requested that my ears behold a confession.
“You… me… have we not been here together—a fantasy! Have we not craved for a moment alone, for three long years, just the two of us?”
My answer was effortless: “Yes.”
We pressed our mouths together at last. The fleshy folds of the mouth reserved for you were hallowed ground; he trespassed upon your property, paralleled your touch. We drank your alcohol, too, my love. That bottle you meant to save for a perfect moment (forever? never?), stolen from some church’s bowels at a moment of holy fervour, fever. You were unwell. We found humour and took advantage of your offense. After all, what could be more perfect, more sacred and profane?
“We are on our way to hell,” he muttered, even as he pressed our mouths closer.
“Make the journey the means that excuse the ends.” He pressed harder, drew a droplet of blood.
When two or more of us are gathered to murder God’s name, may we say that Satan’s present? Suppose he’s real, that hooved horror—does he oversee acts of hatred, revenge fucks such as these? Perhaps we saw Beëlzebub out of the corners of our eyes. We thought we saw someone dance, gleefully, crushing your bones underfoot. We were sure we heard laughter, an uncanny cackle.
Perhaps the laughter belonged merely to me as your sweet, gentle, trusted roommate softly screwed me senseless.
