“As Above, So Below,” Marks the gate to proxy-rules That read stars, like they’re a cluster Of those Indo-European symbols. My friend has reeked of Anglo-Saxon Navy proper sorta ties. He watches Haxan in mere fragments, ‘cus they Call for the devil one or two too many times. Me—He thinks I’m spitting jinxes, Like his sweetheart never spills On her satin broidered collar Darjeeling afternoon tea. Me—He thinks I’ve sworn Ages, dusty centuries ago Off the worship of the deities That his people call just God. I am apt at crafts on margins. I brew potions to take home: Stream from western windy people, Stream from eastern heavy soil. For our literary pleasures I dropped my glass ball French perfumes On the snaky marble stairs, Like his people don’t drop bombs. Now I swim Wednesdays and Fridays In the free communal pool Full of golden Shalimar. I’ll build here My Taj Mahal in the soviet kitschy colors. Can’t he see I’m peeling witch robes Off to get to planet’s core. It smells Of cinnamon, Nabokov, and something We almost recalled. He looked me up in Cambridgepedia. I asked Merriam-Webster what he said. He likes my brain in natal charts. I like his blue fidelity to her. We hate those goddamn boring lectures. We like the bad wine after though. Now I adjust his navy tie With fingers painted sabbath black.
Nare is from Armenia. Her hometown is Yerevan, she has a black cat, and a heavy sense of self. She loves grand gestures and peonies.
Litehouse 