The Cure for Melancholy is to Take the Horn
by Natalie Diaz

          Powdered unicorn horn was once thought to cure melancholy.

What carries the hurt is never the wound
  but the red garden sewn by the horn
as it left––and she left. I am rosing,
  blooming absence, its brilliant alarum.

Brodsky said, Darkness restores what light cannot––
  repair. You thrilled me––opened to the comb.
O, wizard, O, wound. I want the ebon bull and the moon––
  I’ve come for the honeyed horn.

Queen Elizabeth traded a castle for a single horn.
  Surrender to the kingdom in my hands––
army of touch marching upon the alcazar
  of your thighs like bright horns.

I arrive at you––half bestia, half feast.
  Tonight we harvest the luxed forest
of Caderas, name the darkful fruit
  spicing our mouths, separate sweet from thorn.

Lanternist, in your wicked palm,
  the bronzed lamp of my breast. Strike the sparker––
take me with tremble. Into your lap
  let me lay my heavy horns.

I fulfilled the prophecy of your throat,
  loosed in you the fabulous wing of my mouth––
red holy-red ghost. I spoke to god,
  returned to you feathered, seraphimed and horned.

Our bodies are nothing if not places to be had by,
  as in, God, she has me by the throat,
by the hip bone, by the moon. God,
  she has me by the horn.