The Invocation of Babylon
On the stone walls of the bath, the plants have taken to root and grow, throwing jasmine and earthy scents across the air. Today the hands of the gods have been stilled, their silent wanderings halted in the need of progress. My progress.
The wide windows of fallen air hold the true glory of the jungle. The twines of river willow and wisteria hollow out the palace of azure sky, filling it with deep roads to follow. I follow them, lustfully caressing them with my open palm. Thin drops of pale lavender fall to the gray granite below my bare feet.
The hallways of the baths call to me, Tiresias whispers to me across the river Styx. I have followed my prophet and lover here to the ends of the known world and into the depths of the shadow. All I have left now is shadow – and wonder – and dreams. Somewhere in my hazy grief, a rain crow calls toward twilight.
I must make amends to the water gods who took my love. The silent stillness of the ancient waters has called. I have thought of my offerings, of myself. They took my love, should they not have taken my body as well? My soul has flushed its flame in the ocean, a quiet death to my lover’s tortured one. A boat, a river, and a storm – they conspired, the nymphs and Neptune, to take him to another shore.
I finally walk toward their call, the river springs in still stone, a pool where none have sat for a thousand years. The air is calm with anticipation, breath held on the tide of atmosphere. My lover’s heart, we called this place, for his breath was created not far from here. A village boy, brought to American soil, transplanted into my being, and lost on a winter’s boat. I carry the essence of him into the waters with me.
The dark glass comforts my chilled skin. In shimmering flashes, his face smiles in the form of blissful darkness. I kiss the waters with my body, descending into the realm of loss. Smoky stone and moss hold me in their firm arms, caressing my desire for shadow. Is this water god listening to my body? Listening to my heart? Find me, I wish in wonder. Find me, and take me to him.
I close my eyes and let the waters float me toward the delta of Styx. That is the one place where my love resides, listening to the voices of the febrile gods, awaiting the feel of waters once more. His hand slides through my memories, blistering the nerves of my sex, my face, my neck. Hot tears mingle with the puddle of glass and shadow, a bitter mixture. “Take me,” I whisper. Please, please take me.
I dream asleep in the watery grave, desperate for his voice and kiss, his tongue and sex. I am longing for his passion to slip inside of my burning and find my silent stream. I am a path that has no beginning, for I am the end. And he will not come. Will not rise from the waters to find me. Nor will the waters take me to him. My prophet. My passion. My shadow. Gone.
My tears have stilled, the chime of time has run its course. Their gods have had their due, in my soul and his body. They have been handed the choice and refused to decide. So be it. My life is now my own and due. My love will always be. Wrapped in gauzy memory, tied tightly to my being. Until the boat one day comes for me. There I will await on the shore and listen to the breath and words of my devotion.
© Kristine Hawes, 2003