Golden Head by Golden Head, Dante Gabriel Rossetti
We lie still but awake, horizontal
on the antique bed we bought from
that old country in The Old Continent.
The moon hangs
over the garden, its
beams roiling like electric eels
inside the sanctuary of the artificial pond.
This is a night of flickering constellations,
and raven leaves cascading
in a deep lavender sky.
This is a night of quivering willows,
weeping, while they tease
the zealous clouds.
This is a night of hands possessing
a knowledge of their own—
a knowledge once thought forgotten.
This is a night of wakefulness, yes—
We look around us, searching
the darkness for something
we can never find outside of us.
Something calls us,
then falters like a bird in doubt.
Something hangs in the air
as if in the aftermath of
awaiting last rites.
Someone, someday, will try and tell us that
blood is blue so long as it is unexposed,
so long as it is inside our bodies.
That is a lie.
Blood is ever living,