At the Door of Integration, I Turned Around
Louder still from the choir
of the Black Madonna, the treble line
beat blue with the drumming haunts
of incalculable betrayal, too deviant
a lie to unbraid. Even at my dreary ends,
the lasts of me spread across 3000 seasons,
I still got a bell built for humming, that hymn of
repetition an infinite note to God. You think
I worry about beauty? By design,
I come back twice. Undead
imperium, the only idols I’ve got left
can’t be seen. In a good
final silence, they ask me
how I’d like to return. If I’d like to return.
I stay knowing the depth of the vessel belly,
the ripe scent of flesh sniping
at the soft of my eyes, the melon seed
wedged in my tooth like a clove. I say yes,
say, send me back
to this very animus, this
endless fiction. Yes. I would rather be ugly
than forget.
Thank you for reading The Nation!
We hope you enjoyed the story you just read, just one of the many incisive, deeply reported articles we publish daily. Now more than ever, we need fearless journalism that moves the needle on important issues, uncovers malfeasance and corruption, and uplifts voices and perspectives that often go unheard in mainstream media.
Donate right now and help us hold the powerful accountable, shine a light on issues that would otherwise be swept under the rug, and build a more just and equitable future.
For nearly 160 years, The Nation has stood for truth, justice, and moral clarity. As a reader-supported publication, we are not beholden to the whims of advertisers or a corporate owner. But it does take financial resources to report on stories that may take weeks or months to investigate, thoroughly edit and fact-check articles, and get our stories to readers like you.
Donate today and stand with us for a better future. Thank you for being a supporter of independent journalism.
Thank you for your generosity.
