by David Luntz
Blowtorch Messiah
When even the angels could no longer bear
to look upon us,
the whales came onshore
to scrawl graffiti
in kelp and iodine.
A chorus of vivisectionists chanted,
“He has come. He has come.”
Leaves skittered across cryonic streets.
The afternoon bleared sfumato.
“There is no rush, there is no rush,
do not be afraid,” he said,
relieving himself against a copper fence.
Some were overjoyed to see him,
shuttering shops, pinning rose petals
to his leprous calves.
A blowtorch swung from his neck.
“The scorpion’s placenta now milks
the cobra’s tears,”
a blind washerwoman sang.
He started with infants.
Singeing dendrites, open nerves.
He left gold coins in their mouths.
By evening there was a gash
in the side of the sky
that would not stop bleeding,
nor enough sorrow to staunch it.
How Water Binds Us to Silence
I appeared in your dream at 6:12 pm.
You tapped your watch.
Shook your head.
I had no bus or train to blame.
I was late.
We stood at the edge of a lake.
A meteor struck water.
Surface tension broke.
I almost drowned.
You said my eyes were St. Jerome’s.
A lion slept by my side, magpies in my armpits.
Why hadn’t you let me see this before?
And rubbed my necklace of precious stones—
screams when you left.
Now—moon dew cakes them.
Songs we danced to
hang in shadows, wind, tips of grass—
pinning butterflies.
****
Work forthcoming in or has appeared in Post Road, X-R-A-Y Lit, Hobart Pulp. Twitter: @luntz_david