this prophecy is the baby on the hip of my love

this prophecy is the baby
on the hip
of my love,

who stands there, in a
vast solitude, looking
with delicate pupils
toward something.

perhaps toward that
town you left me
for, the one with
the oily black-sky
sorrows and salted air?

you joined me.
why, again?
and again, why?

because i am dubious,
at times; entrenched
and needing to be pried
from the ice of a self-inflicted
menace.

i was no match for
your alter; i had no
armor against the
incense of your
sweet summoning.

i knew, somehow, you'd
hold the answer
to my paramount
question,

and if it takes my whole
life to reach that
mark, it will have
been worth it.

for this prophecy is the baby
on the hip
of my love:

the burning-meteor progeny
of our delirious elopement
so many years ago.

and i've not had to close
my eyes more than once
to see framed the
image of you and her
standing there
together.

how many times since
has the temptation arisen
for me to cross the room
of that vision and take
hold of you by those thin,
subtle lips
with my own;

to return to the
source of my
passion's passion
and throw (once again)
a line toward
you before going
too far adrift?

if you think
i'll ever be extinguished
you're wrong,

for this prophecy is the baby
on the hip
of my love,

who stands there, in a
vast solitude, looking
with delicate pupils
toward something.

perhaps toward that
pain you felt
with the arrival of
so many old, latent
mornings,

when it was supposed to be
easier this time around?
we found that if we
had to change our lot
we had to retire our
losses.

you joined me.
why, again?
and again, why?

because i think you
knew, in your threads
of twilight, in your
secret deaths, in your
infinite dreams,

that you saw the future,
peering out from some
glittering moment
when we were entangled,
a prophecy that held

in it the stitched fire
and braided ancient
waters of a love
that blew up the world;

that came from the blood
womb and the cream heart
and forged, for you and i,
the beginning of this good life.