And when we are finished, I ask
if she thinks us grotesque,
two plain monsters basking
in our blood—our liquid plaque.
We celebrate the art of
our unmaking. She spirals my body
into a single drop, ambrosia
spoiled by the Gods. I copy
the signature of her sin-
ged moan, grind it down
until it becomes my own dim
map. Even the Gods fuck. Crown
themselves in gardens pastored
by snakes. I am crying. Not out of shame
but out of tradition. To have mastered
this want, only to carve for it a lock, a name
as queer as unholy. How queer it fits
inside the mouth, how queer is my woman
and the sweat she makes of me, a sweet trick
of her tongue. Don’t we deserve a hand-
made altar. Don’t we deserve a crowd
of worshipers to carry our bed. And yes
please to the beads, the sacred
wars, the body ornaments, the vain-eyed
statues pulsing deep with our flood.
Yes to the orchestrated violence, a quiver
licked down my spine. May our love blood
the skies like a storm of Gods high off terror.
O Zeus. O Oshun. O Ra. O Kali. O Me. O Her. O Gods—God?
Yes. Gods. Don’t act like you don’t know our names’ roar.
Whispered. Sweet and savage inside your temples.
Preserved behind velvet doors.
Copyright © 2023 by Crystal Valentine. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on May 23, 2023, by the Academy of American Poets.
A zombie is a head
with a hole in it.
Layers of plastic,
putty, and crust.
The mindless
must be sated.
Mottled men who will
always return
mouthing wet
promises.
You rise already
harmed and follow
my sad circle
as if dancing
on shattered legs.
Shoeless, toeless,
such tender absences.
You come to me
ripped
in linens and reds,
eternal, autumnal
with rust and wonder.
My servant, sublimate
and I am yours
(the hot death
we would give each other).
My dark ardor,
my dark augur.
Love to the very open-
mouthed end.
We are made of
so much hunger.
Copyright © 2017 by Hadara Bar-Nadav. “Zombie” was published in The New Nudity (Saturnalia Books, 2017). Used with permission of the author.