Work Text:
No angel expects the knife.
Love is the natural oblivion for us, not death:
the finality of utter consumption, as planets
are eaten by their suns, a tongue transposed by fire
into a thousand-part harmony of gravity and rock.
It is at once our nature and our escape from it,
in the way a lock will eventually become its own key,
the knot this borrowed body ties with yours.
At the moment of becoming we cease to be.
In this you and I are a kindred, of sorts - siblings
of a shared fate, two starvations sympathetic to each other.
The future is a word that rattles between your shoulder-blades,
pressed there by dead and hungry lips I do not own.
Turn over, you say, and then, No. Turn around.
Your palms sliding up the backs of these thighs,
forcing the soft hair there against its natural bend.
Curved jut of spine, to meet this slight body to yours.
You take me in your mouth and I consent to be filled,
the native language of flesh heavy on this immigrant
tongue. On this bed a thick ouroboros of hunger, devouring itself.
A thousand-voiced bloodline has shuddered to a single point.
A thousand times holy, holy for your moaning hips
twisting in this blue bedspread, a thousand hosannas
for the hands that clutch this skin I wear. You break
off, cry nonsense: Yes, Cas, like that, yes. Rattling word.
The corners of this mouth slick and burning.
You were made as angels are: your realization
is to yield.