Demon and The Dove
The psychotherapist has a sad dove dying in his eye. He looks at the light like wood holding fire in it reflected in small caves and tells me there is a window where love weeps over what it cannot know. The dove's trembling, flickering like a sun alone in the dark nest of his face, and the psychotherapist is saying, there is nothing like losing your Self for a Demon. We walk in to each other as into a museum, and our portraits gleam. This sounds like he's saying our deaths are old, they may not even belong to us. In the end, our meeting is just the fantasy we've been looking for all along. Yes, Yes, I say, I've come here to burn for you all my illusions. Yes, I say, I can see you for who you are like I can see the mother huddling her chicks in the sea cliff in your inkblot, before she pecks their eyes large as blood grapes and eats them alive, the storm clouds rupturing that purple slag of lightning. What I want is to hold you like a bell holds space between the hours. What I want is to get back one with the other, self with dove, desire with the storm inside that destroys absence like a murderous blood. What I want is a therapy like a first love—merciless fascination—my eyes looking in like the crazed bells of silence to startle the mortal coil. This romance of self you can't escape, and you don't want to.