“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 