fumatorium

Currying the Fallow-Colored Horse

And to the curious I say, Don’t be naive.

The soul, like a trinket, is a she.

I lay down in the tweed of one man that first frost night. I did not like the wool of him.

You have one mitochondrial speck of evidence on your chest.

They can take you down for that.

Did I forget to mention that when you’re dead

You’re dead a long time.

My uncle, dying, told me this when asked, Why stay here for such suffering.

A chimney swift flits through the fumatorium.

I long for one last Blue democracy, which has broke my heart a while.

How many minutes have I left, the lover asked, To still be beautiful?

I took his blond face in my hands and kissed him blondely on the mouth.
— 

Lucie Brock-Broido, “Currying the Fallow-Colored Horse”

From Stay, Illusion