Hybrid: “Queen of Cups in the Apocalypse” by Kolleen Carney Hoepfner
Queen of Cups in the Apocalypse
Let my throat tell you how much
I’ve missed you. I drive this expanse
of nothingness and all the fields
are on fire. Still, doesn’t it feel good
to be noticed? Once I named your voice
for what it was: a crime wave—
even timbre gripping
and my shameful panic clawing.
Violence lining the walls
of our sepulcher. You disappear
and I have never once complained.
I take every inch of you: your little ribbon finger.
The full moon in your palms. Clavicle
to cut my teeth on. I smile as I do it.
I whisper to you from a future
where our synapses don't lead us
to temptation. If you can hear me,
it's just as well. I am holding your skull in my
threaded fingers. I am remembering
your thumb on my windpipe. You ask me
how I say the things you can't bring yourself to.
Lover, father, creepshow heart.
Let me tell you.
We descend and descend
some more. Consider this: You told me not
to love you and then you let me have it.
Really gave it to me. How can I
not tattoo that on my heart? So I speak
things soaked only in blood and come
and love. I have created this body
of work, the work of my body,
so I can keep you when you're finally gone.
When I can grieve you.
In a future wasteland I make your bread,
I draw your bath. I wash your feet with
the honeyed hair you keep your secrets in.
How to touch you. How to taste.
You say you don't have
the words like I do. Liar: you're just waiting
for that final revelation, a fourth
horseman of sweat and longing.
Give up the ghost and tell me
that you love me. Take the pieces I have given you
and form them into our new horizon:
one where the sun dies as it rises
and you say the words, and mean them.
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