Catastrophe Jones

She prays
to pull words from the ether,
to make worlds real.
She half-sings,
a low note of sacred light, deep in his throat.
She thinks of me.
She sits
at the henge.
She waits
for sun and shadow to align.
She thinks of me.
She tastes
cherry on his lips.
She memorizes
the sky, threatening
and welcoming
and consuming
and delirious.
She thinks of me.
She spills
blood in my name.
She creates
a machine of ideas,
a connection
of all things past
and yet to come,
a grinding of gears
that promise progress,
and seduce so easily
with hope.
She thinks of me.

Mete out the blood,
drop by drop,
beat by beat.

I can hear you in my veins,
feel you etched
along the inside of my bones,
an electric drone,

a humble buzz,
declaring me your hive,
filling each cell
with queens desperate to be fucked

and abandoned.

I gave you far too much power
for any ten men to wield;
no wonder you never had hands
strong enough to use it —
after all this time,
I may be ready to admit:

perhaps I was the sun;

dazzled by my light,
you simply flew
too close to me.