by Matilda Reys
They say there is a serpent to every fruit from a forbidden tree. So go on, just pour. Pour yourself a sparkling glass of cider, watch the tiny bubbles spume. How beautiful they are just before they burst. Double the serpent, double trouble, cheers!
Could a simple mortal ever be forgiven, should you dare?
Should you unleash the beast, close your eyes and let it feast, if need be,
straight from the craddle?
Everyone’s fast asleep in this gloomy little town, yet the night’s so young, so close to innocent it gives you shivers. Just like her. She came today again. Her cheeks were like roses when she came with that famous bucket of flowers and asked if she could turn the altar into a garden. You let her have a go, and it was as if she turned water into wine. You felt like flying when she bent over. Then you hit a wall, and now, licking your bruises from that fall, you can’t take the pain all sober.
Pour yourself another one, please. Let the sweetness wash away the sorrow from your lips. Your sacristy is so silent you can hear the bubbles spark. Less so in the churchyard. The joyous wild racoons scream and bark, busy in the act of procreation, hurting your ears of a man in his best years. Their shameless wildery flies in the face of your vocation, you reach for a weapon. Rosary.
Think twice about the paradise you’re giving away, with every single no. You want to touch her but you don’t think there’s a way. There is no heart inside her little chest where breasts are yet to grow.
She asked you if you’re into men, with a rotten smile on her lips that must taste no less than vanilla.
Then she ran away, laughing at your blush, before you’d teach her about love of a saint gone villain. About all the melodies that wish to be born from the thrill of strings stretched between the poles of good and evil. Or can you tell a violin not to sing a tune, at the gentle carress of a master’s bow? Can you ask a swan not to sing her best song, knowing her song is lethal?
Put that rosary aside. Drops of your nasty sweat are dripping down from the wooden beads like blood.
Just look at the bubbles in your glass of cider. Hold it against the chandelier. Spread your wings made of wax, fly high, higher! Wasn’t it the light you’d fallen for, when you swore a forever to your Lord, you pompous liar? In love with the highest form of innocence, you find your wings are melting, burnt by the very same flames that shine and burn inside you. Nothing to stop your fall in the dark, I’m sorry. Fall like the glass, this glass of your cap, slipped through your shaky fingers, crash into shards. Each of them its own reflection, its very own piece of light. The light still shining strong, in every shard full glory.
Look at you, here you go again. You fall on your knees amidst the shards. Is it for lack of balance, or could it be piety? Singing a requiem for your soul? The flesh is fragile, more mortal than the glass, can you feel it? Remember that day when you made us laugh again, both me and your God Almighty, with your noble oaths? Now like a spider trapped in own webbing, your promises and lies choke you. What more is there left to steal? The flower of her innocence is half eaten by worms already. Be it you or somebody else, what’s worse, let’s pick up the cherry once it’s ready. She laughs at your agony, heaven either has no mercy, so why should you shy away from the beast, just go ahead and tame it. With all your zest for innocence, her body comes in a shape you can’t endure.
Crawling on your bloody knees, across the sea of piercing shards, you crawl to your Savior hanging on a cross. A masterpiece of fine carpentry. You touch him with your bleeding palms, pathetic fool. You’ve just soiled your Master’s statue with own blood, just another sign of your never ceasing peasantry. And as if that was not enough, you stick your dirty fingers in his wound. That wound will never close, hope you know it. You know it will never cease bleeding either. If only for that daily fate is what you live for, go on. I will be back again, another night, like an eagle, eager to feast on another little piece of your only liver.
Crawl on. You bore me, you know? I need to yawn, at another sight of your prayer. You say you won’t. Sweet. No one sees your stigma of that everyday no. No one here to applaud you, hero. For now, let’s call it a secret, let’s hope no one will ever know. Put on your martyr crown, the shining helo of an everyday slob, who’s found the power for another no, just for tonight, a winner! Just remember, the serpent knows how to wait. He knows letting you fatten up with pride will only make you sweeter to the tongue. You want to see what faith looks like? Just look at the serpent’s face. There you will see one true believer.
You and I again. Sincerely, I hate your face. You smile. So do I. I smile as a face of a lady you least wish to see. She’s not a lady, indeed. All she wants is to see you on your knees. And there you are. On your knees. Bereaved. Broken. You know you will die without ever tasting the sugary timbre of her bloom. What’s worse, you open. Oh please, let me go. I’m getting tired of yawning. Out of your deepest secrets of the morning – just let me go. By now, I’m getting used to your no. Every day you say no. Every night, also.