Annunciation

I woke with God’s first kiss,
a stream of light through the
window. I had dreamed of
dear Joseph and his
callused hands on my
skin, tracing psalms
between my thighs.
Hair matted
from sleep, I brushed
back a lion’s mane.
Morning prayers.
Sleep-grit in eyes –
a dove flew
into my room.
The hopeful thing
hopped on my bed
nestled by my pillow
and looked upon me.
“Why, little bird,
do you visit me?”
I asked, stroking
its downy breast.
The moment I
touched the bird,
heat licked my skin –
I screamed, and, in
a flash of plasma
a being appeared,
terrible to behold.
“Fear not,” said the angel –
a flaming wheel given form,
with hair of the desert,
his eyes the Sea of Galilee.
His feet burned, brimstone,
and his breath was like
spikenard and myrrh.
I would have run,
had I not been petrified,
mesmerized by his beauty.
My heart was a gazelle,
it leapt out of my chest,
into his slender arms.
“Who are you?”
I breathed.
“Gabriel, a messenger
of the Lord, my
jitterbug lamb,”
he said, voice a bell
the kind that tolls
when death is near.
“Why have you
appeared to me?”
He came closer,
cupped the dove
with pianist’s fingers.
“Fear not, Mary,
for you are a dragonfly
in God’s jazzy hands.”
I trembled, I shook,
I fell like Babel’s tower.
“God? But why?”
Gabriel smiled.
“You will conceive
a son, Jesus, holiest
of holies – his jams will
play scat, beep-bop, across
nations.”
My womb stirred.
“But I have known no music.”
Gabriel offered me the dove.
I took it with molasses hands.
“The Holy Ghost shall come
upon you, play for you,
his saxophone rouse your soul.”
I knew then, what the
music of God was. His
holy sound filled me,
and I yearned for
divine communion.
Gabriel’s lips met mine like
lilies blooming. He tasted
sweeter than Joseph,
like rain and manna.
No act of song or
creation is sinless –
we are all the children
of God. But my son,
especially so.

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The Wild Hunt

The Wild Hunt rides out tonight,
mothers, lock your children’s doors,
dead will rise, the Hunt seek souls.

Light a lantern, light a match,
the trees will moan, and spirits call,
the Wild Hunt rides out tonight.

The phantom hounds will smell you out,
will sink their teeth in shoulder-bone,
dead will rise, the Hunt seek souls.

Hide your eyes, oh, bow your heads,
their leader is no earthly man,
the Wild Hunt rides out tonight.

The Hunter leaves no one alive,
his horn is loud as lightning storms,
dead will rise, the Hunt seek souls.

I ride with them, my body rots,
the Hunter’s thrall, forevermore.
The Wild Hunt rides out tonight,
dead will rise, the Hunt seeks souls.

The Horned God

The Horned God walks through bloodied fields,
with foaming mouth, a deity in decay.
The Horned God howls, His wounds unhealed.

His antlers smooth as spears and shields,
His song, it holds the moon at bay.
The Horned God walks through bloodied fields.

The grasses bend, the trees all yield-
branches bowed and giving way.
The Horned God howls, His wounds unhealed.

Wild men throng round and wield
sharpened sticks, as long as day.
The Horned God walks through bloodied fields.

The Horned God strips, His flesh revealed-
He is the roaming beasts we slay.
The Horned God howls, His wounds unhealed.

Rain seeps down, His skin is peeled,
His soul glides out to skies of gray.
The Horned God walks through bloodied fields.
The Horned God howls, his wounds unhealed.