the last pasture of the paziks

a myth exercise.

 

it is said of this land
that it was the Pazik’s final stop
the Nomad’s last resting place
that their souls reside here
above the high Russian Steppes

and on that deep winter evening
as we lay on top of the snow
we talked of their hidden land beneath us
and their spirits watching us from above
everything was sacred
every word its own separate song
i kissed my own lips with your name
i gave you all my white-armed love
and every time you turned your wet body to mine
i could not say no
shaking from cold and your beauty
i thought that this would be a good night to die

and when i asked you for your love
when i asked you to promise and swear yourself away
it was not in you to say yes
you pointed to the sky and i saw my winter Orion
and as you explained that the Hero
would be gone before spring
i looked over at you and saw my winter of ruin
reflected plainly on your face
accusing me of wanting too much
i saw your eyes closing to me
and i knew that your heart was closing as well
that the Hero would outlast the man

you left me in this field
and here i have stayed
dancing with my midnight shadow
squeezing all the blackberries until they died
and biting the budding leaves from the trees

tonight i lay in this garden and dream of you
with my legs wide open and my eyes shut down
can’t you hear how my springtime is calling you?
i know you must hear my cries, but you do not come
throwing stones at god to pass the time
all i can hear are his cross-talking angels
all i can think is that this would be a good night to die

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