a.d. is drawn to the sacred, the profane, the mysterious and the mythological, which provides inspiration for her work. She is a bisexual poet and visual artist, and her poetry has been published in THINK, Aôthen Magazine, Ode to Dionysus Journal, The Cove Review, Culterate and elsewhere, and nominated for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize. Meanwhile, her visual art, mainly photography and self-portraiture, is featured in Hominum Journal, Welter, Audi Locus, Bleating Thing and other outlets. She is currently working on her first poetry collection. Tumblr & Twitter: @godstained
the smoke from your cigarette rises between us and christens
the barren night. down the sultry backstreets where we disappear,
my heels discarded, knees filthy like a schoolgirl’s. the uneven
rhythm of the pavement reveals the heart of the city & its buried longing.
this is the pulse of my addiction:
the way I always rush ahead despite craving your proximity,
akin to how I am rushing headlong into this, us, whatever it is, with the clarity
that surely, if I shatter through your wall of glass some of it will cling to me.
my nape, feverish, remembers the heat of your hand from moments before.
there is darkness & there is distance.
the quivering streetlamps alight the shape of your stately head.
we fill the night with your chosen music— there is solace in knowing
somebody before us has been swept in blue, has wept
at the prospect of parting. I recall the way your eyes trail on me when I’m dancing,
a blur under oozing lights. rapacious & possessive, they refuse to leave me.
we pass a dove with its chest split open.
I recognize our kindred but decline to name it. here is the moonless night
with its thrusting heat. I keep beckoning you to press
your desire into my wound.
what is this thing that keeps us spinning?
is it the weight of the invisible stars? is it their comfort?
there is nothing that binds me here but
an anchorage of nameless memories;
like coming alive under veil
of darkness— your breath in my hair & my heart burning madly
in the confines of my kiss-swept throat.
(originally published in Anti-Heroin Chic – Issue 36)
Leda
The encompassing feathered embrace
like a prison holds you, helpless
against the will of god: the snaking
neck seeking surrender
from untouched and unyielding thighs,
the nipping beak at your starved breast—
One savage swoop and it is over. A divine
robbery: crimson hymen split over swan-white plumes.
Nothing remains of the cygnet
after his ascension but his crime.
You lie still for the longest time, smothered
in your feather coffin
as the holy seed hijacks your body like a flood.
Years later,
when the curtain has been lifted
and the earth is gravid with blood,
as the diaphanous dead like fumes
chart their avian departure amidst the still-smoking ruins,
do you curse god
for the play he’s orchestrated
or yourself
for your role in it?
(originally published in PISSOIR! #2)
Poetry in this post: © a.d.
Published with the permission of a.d.