Belles Lettres
“belles lettres”
It’s a slow drifting
off, that moment
before you dive
into the dark
you surface
to find a boat
surrounded by
shining pearls,
Styx, a mirror
reflecting
otherworldly stars
hypnotic,
you trail
your long
pale slender fingers
in the forbidden water,
it is cool to the touch
a new fever
embraces you,
you become sensate
the feelings
hit your skin
like shifting satin
the sweetest shivering
a new gliding
Dante dream arrives
your eyes are open,
your mind suspended,
held tight, as if netted
with rope, as if stolen
by something other
guaranteeing
an inevitable exchange
that cannot be broken
there your journey
continues consistent,
surreal and silent,
not a word spoken
no lyre music,
yet, the sound heard
like a distant memory,
appreciated,
like a quiet symphony,
the soft
siren splash
of black,
the taste of spray
not salty,
but like a kiss
on your lips
sweet and heady
it tastes like
honey mead
like something foreign
and expensive,
you see your reflection
in the rippling,
and you think,
I fear this will cost me
this being here,
in this peculiar place
of there is no longer
no fear of where we go,
the rippling depths
of as above so below,
diamonds shining
beneath waving strings of
velvet ebony liquorice
as above so below,
the eternal river
from one
uncertain shore
to the next,
the oars
like spatulas drip,
the scent of violet napellus
mixing the dark recipe,
Venus Chariot,
indigo robes of Morpheus
Monkshood and Wolfsbane
wrap their cloak around
your nakedness
you find yourself
banked upon a shore
collateral damage
nubile again and barefoot
invisible paws
that scorch the sand
mark their way
toward you
the physical presence
unseen, but oh so unstill,
now stops like silky brakes
before you
ominous and
mysterious
before you
this presence waits,
you see its warm breath
like a strange mist,
it is sensuous,
caressing you
this petite mort
like a little death,
you’re such a vulnerable
and soft target
then, the striking
face and body
materializes
before you
it takes
your breath away
You hear the words,
3 sentences delivered
from unwavering
emerald windows,
"belles-lettres reçues.
je suis ton ombre.
payer le passeur."
With its tongue
it has passed
you a broken stem
the syrup sweet
and dripping
you take it
in your hands
like a royal
sceptre;
it now stands beside me
and as I turn
I do what it bids
me do
the broken bloom
is given to the boatman
who drops the pristine petals
into the ebony flow
like purple prose,
the token is paid
this torn
Lily of the Nile
each petal a word
in a long sentence released
beside me,
a kiss on the hand,
a stroke like a
comfortable eternity felt
it whispers,
"l'arrivée a un coût."
In my own way I agree,
I respond,
"belles-lettres
je t'ai
envoyées
comme une
panthère
je deviens
ton ombre"
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
"Dans le fond des forêts votre image me suit."
(Pursuit, Sylvia Plath)
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