[image ID: Belovéd by Yves Olade.
& every time you touched me I hummed like a lyre, my body
taut as a bow, always ready for violence. I was always a
song of absence. A song of grief. How we lay in that garden,
palms turned towards the sky. Your hands were rough as the
killing-stone; your skin dark as the earth. David, I wanted to
talk about love; you wanted to become it. O, I stripped bare for
you—skinned clean as the brown foal. Yes, I suffered like a
prayer at the hands of God. For there was always this between
us: this anger, this desire. A longing that opened its mouth. A
longing that spoke your name. We swallowed whole that sorrow,
grew it great as an ocean / felt each harsh cut of the wind
across that wild sea. How you always can describe the wound
but never how it made you feel. In your dreams, you held a sword
between each rib. In your mouth, you carry copper. How holy we
made this savagery—the touch of your skin on mine. David, I
thought so many things & never said a single one aloud. I choked
on such longing I couldn’t spit out. Yes, desire is so different
when God bore you hungry. I could have devoured anything an
still have been starving. In one version of our story the fruit is in
your chest. David, I eat it anyway. O, I know nothing but to take
& keep taking. If Cain discovered unkindness then we were the
first to call its name. So how biblical it is, in the night: the ways
you find to look at me. I let my soles turn salted earth. My rot is
as hungry as me. & when God asks me about love, I always respond
with cruelty. I know no other answer; know no other question.
Yes, love can be the violence. David, show me how it can be
healing. Let us let what is coming, come into Eden. Yes, and our
bodies, turned like arrows towards the sun— & oil falling on us like
the rain & sweet as honey.
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