Cherry

You and I are suicidal stolen art.

Evil inside me telling me to lie, but the monster inside me commanding me to eat my enemy’s future fetus. Eat the fetal carcass after dipping it on the mother’s mangled womb. 

Calm was the sea to which your course you kept, Oh, how much calmer than all southern seas! Many your nameless mates, whom the keen breeze Wafted from mothers that of old have wept. All souls of children taken as they slept Are your companions, partners of your ease, And the green souls of all these autumn trees Are with you through the silent spaces swept. Your virgin body gave its gentle breath Untainted to the gods. Why should we grieve, But that we merit not your holy death? We shall not loiter long, your friends and I; Living you made it goodlier to live, Dead you will make it easier to die.

Oh my black soul! now art thou summoned By sickness, death's herald, and champion; Thou art like a pilgrim, which abroad hath done Treason, and durst not turn to whence he is fled; Or like a thief, which till death's doom be read, Wisheth himself delivered from prison, But damned and haled to execution, Wisheth that still he might be imprisoned. Yet grace, if thou repent, thou canst not lack; But who shall give thee that grace to begin? Oh make thy self with holy mourning black, And red with blushing, as thou art with sin; Or wash thee in Christ's blood, which hath this might That being red, it dyes red souls to white.

Behold her, single in the field, Yon solitary Highland Lass! Reaping and singing by herself; Stop here, or gently pass! Alone she cuts and binds the grain, And sings a melancholy strain; Listen! for the Vale profound Is overflowing with the sound. No Nightingale did ever chaunt More welcome notes to weary bands Of travelers in some shady haunt, Among Arabian sands: A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird, Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides. Will no one tell me what she sings?— Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow For old, unhappy, far-off things, And battles long ago: Or is it some more humble lay, Familiar matter of to-day? Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, That has been, and may be again? Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang As if her song could have no ending; I saw her singing at her work, And o'er the sickle bending;-- I listened, motionless and still; And, as I mounted up the hill The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more.

Some say the world will end in fire, Some say in ice. From what I've tasted of desire I hold with those who favor fire. But if it had to perish twice, I think I know enough of hate To say that for destruction ice Is also great And would suffice.

The bustle in a house The morning after death Is solemnest of industries Enacted upon earth, -- The sweeping up the heart, And putting love away We shall not want to use again Until eternity.

I have learned your speech, Fair stranger; for you I have oiled my hair And coiled it tight Into a braid as thick And beautiful as the serpent In your story of Eden. For you, I have covered My breasts and hidden, Among the folds of my surrendered Inheritance, the beads I have worn since girlhood. It is fifty years now Since the day my father Took me to the school in Bua, A headman's terrified Peace-gift.  In the doorway, The teacher stood, her hair The bleached color of corn, Watching with bird-eyes. Now, I am Christina. I am told I can make lace Fine enough to lay upon the altar Of a cathedral in Europe. But this is a place That I will never see. I cook for tourists at an inn; They praise my lemon pie And my English, which they say Is faultless.  I smile And look past the window, Imagining father's and grandfather's cattle Grazing by the smoke trees. But it is evening, and these Are ghosts. In the night, When I am alone at last, I lie uncorseted Upon the iron bed, Composing my lost beads Over my chest, dreaming back Each flecked and opalescent Color, crooning the names, Along with mine: Binaay, Binaay.

I have learned your speech, Fair stranger; for you I have oiled my hair And coiled it tight Into a braid as thick And beautiful as the serpent In your story of Eden. For you, I have covered My breasts and hidden, Among the folds of my surrendered Inheritance, the beads I have worn since girlhood. It is fifty years now Since the day my father Took me to the school in Bua, A headman's terrified Peace-gift.  In the doorway, The teacher stood, her hair The bleached color of corn, Watching with bird-eyes. Now, I am Christina. I am told I can make lace Fine enough to lay upon the altar Of a cathedral in Europe. But this is a place That I will never see. I cook for tourists at an inn; They praise my lemon pie And my English, which they say Is faultless.  I smile And look past the window, Imagining father's and grandfather's cattle Grazing by the smoke trees. But it is evening, and these Are ghosts. In the night, When I am alone at last, I lie uncorseted Upon the iron bed, Composing my lost beads Over my chest, dreaming back Each flecked and opalescent Color, crooning the names, Along with mine: Binaay, Binaay.

To this harlequinade I wear black tight and fool’s cap Billiken, make me three bright masks For the three tasks in my life. Three faces to wear One after the other For the three men in my life. When my Brother comes make me one opposite If he is a devil, a saint With a staff to his fork And for his horns, a crown. I hope for my contrast To make nil Our old resemblance to each other and my twin will walk me out Without a frown Pretending I am another. When my Father comes Make me one so like His child once eating his white bread in trance Philomela before she was raped. I hope by likeness To make him believe this is the same kind The chaste face he made, And my blind Lear will walk me out Without a word Fearing to peer behind. If my lover comes, Yes, when Seducer comes Make for me the face That will in color race The carnival stars And change in shape Under his grasping hands. Make it bloody When he needs it white Make it wicked in the dark Let him find no old mark Make it stone to his suave touch This magician will walk me out Newly loved. Not knowing why my tantalizing face Is strangely like the mangled parts of a face He once wiped out. Make me three masks.