Hulga’s Gift

Hulga the Angel descends in the dark.
Her stump leg scrapes the ground. She knows full well
Her presence brings no peace nor chastity.
Not here, not anymore. Because I am
Re-stitching this dress, pulling out the seam.
For each knot I tie, the tighter will be
My new skin, adjusted by the years
To fit over new curves, new bones, break new hearts.
Let down the hem, iron out the creases:
This chocolate silk dress is yours. I made it
For you. Time only makes my blood run cold
And memory gets richer with heat, with want.

Hulga points to a violin player.
She says, “Maybe this was the only man
You ever really loved. And even then
It was only your desire you loved.”
It is more than just her name that is ugly.
It is my shame, my lust, that in itself
Makes my identity, summer after
Summer. Put on my dress, cut by a bow.
Measure my life against the day we met.

There will always be death in this body.
Hold it close, embrace wounded memory.
Truth is embedded in divine flesh. Yours.
I will hear your music for my whole life
And I will remember your tenderness,
Part of me forever, like a stump leg.
If you see me haunting your dreams, or don’t,
Whether you can or cannot forget me;
I will wear this dress with everything
I ever wanted in you or in him.

Hulga points to a reveling sinner.
She says, “Maybe this was the only man
You ever really wanted. Even still
It was only yourself that you needed.”

Mon Petit Mort

Now into this life I see
The shape of you across my bed:
You are the Little Death of me.

The city spread out like the sea,
You reached to the wound in my head.
Now into this life I see.

Whate’er touch meant—my want—only
Love not your wife; choose me instead.
You are the Little Death of me.

Consume my heart entirely.
All words are for my Belovéd.
Now into this life I see.

Our bodies shake; we are set free
From the past. Shame and guilt are shed.
You are the Little Death of me.

A world apart from pain, we
Awaken ourselves from the Dead:
Now into this life I see
You are the Little Death of me.