To Long, Still, Is My Blame
Beside a candle, the nickel plating
is still warm. With a breath it
came to me a desire, more a wish
of which I cannot boast shame.
The first was my Venus white, who was
of purity even virgins – virgins with fins
for feet who dwell in the depths of the
sea – would tremble to claim.
But from her did not macerate these
tepid oils, for as a man I am bound
to protect, even when she ground
against me to be untamed.
Zena then came and being Venus dark,
bearing the perfect rondure of womanhood
though young, then this vial was dipped
in the seething froth that bears her name.
This tome of torment was then held upright
by each on either side, and when white Venus
looked at me with that wresting innocence
she noticed I was not the same.
I had cleaved once to Zena, though only
by heart, of course to separate would tear
a little from each and until eternity begins
would leave each noticeably lame.
When she told me her real name, Christina,
the irony of darkness and light poured
over my mouth and tongue like vinegar,
the stain of stigmata cruelly aimed.
Cruelly though gracefully, still she
whispered molten lines close to my neck
and began to steam those oils in my veins
anointing as they flowed and maimed.
Delightfully scolding – after all, dark
Venus was beauty perfected. Oh, the liquid
emeralds beneath dark brows, the sculpted teeth
behind lips molded in a divine potter’s game.
As a man I was bound to fail, so I chased
her in vain, calling after her foolishly
after she had left, chasing, calling, foolishly
ebullient pour la belle dame.
It was my vanity that has forever sullied
Venus white, so it is amid ridicule,
seeped in humiliation, that to this
single candle I came.
Seeking a solace of greater calm, prostrate
before the flickering torch with its root of
wick, seeking to cool the boiling oil in my
veins, to cool beside this flame.
She did not quench my lifelong thirst with
sour wine, rather doused me with molten
laughter, as I stood gladly, willing beneath
a machicolation lined with an ivory frame.
So it is here before the glowing candle, the
flame that seems to twitch as I, that begins
to cool this shroud of wax I wear as though
I have been bronzed by fame.
That, of course, I failed is not my guilt,
nor that I sullied Venus white, but that I
long, I long for Venus dark, prostrate and
trembling. To long, still, that is my blame.
© 2013 KS Culbreth.
All content on this website is the copyright of KS Culbreth.
Please contact: KSCulbrethwriter@gmail.com for rights to
reproduce any part of this website.