Mark Budman

To My Love

When the moon turned red, I searched for you all over the house, and broke every lock. I ran all over the city, and the earth shook under my feet. I smashed every door with a crowbar, and shot men and dogs. The cops fired at me, but I was impervious to pain. And as for blood, I always liked the color.

I dove into oceans, and sunk ships and pleasure boats, but I didn’t find you. The navy fired at me, but I was used to pain, and the water caressed my wounds, and small fish nibbled at my toes.

To the air I took, downed birds and planes alike, caught lightning bolts and meteors. The air force fired at me, but I had already lost all my blood, and all my bones had turned to mush.

I climbed up the mountains, and melted glaciers and went down mine shafts. I parted molten magma in my bare hands, but I couldn’t find you.

They dropped an A-bomb, and, finally, mercifully, I died and went to hell. The minions tried to restrain me, but I broke all the chains. I ran naked, and the walls shook from my cries. I ruined torture chambers. I broke the devil’s fingers one by one, and lifted up the faces of the shamed, but I failed to find you.

I escaped to heaven, pushed everyone aside, and found you clothed in air, with the red moon for a brooch, staring at me with two stars for eyes. I said, “It’s me, don’t you know?” but you didn’t respond.

I said, “I love you,” but you closed your eyes.

I lost my guide, and withdrew inside myself as a viper’s tongue retracts into the slither of the mouth. I’d strike you down if I ever emerged.