previously published here by Devlin De La Chapa
“Shh, don’t speak” are the fractured
words, sadomasochistic still frames, segments
of a post-Elizabethan tragedy whispered
into my mouth; remnants of the thousands
lying dead in the fields.
The echo. . .ooh the echo. . .like
a serpents tongue slithering wet
pissing poison into the crevices
of my aching patois; no blood red
shimmering apple could compare.
I drift, and dream of Pontius Pilate,
commanding the placement of the
famed thorned crown on Jesus’s head
as he staked claim to his fate;
the world watches, cursed, as I am now.
The insanity of my eyes rage open to
the irony of past crucifixions before me,
plunging deep within the ill religious
creating an unsacrilegious temple
of my forbidden body.
The King kisses my lips, and augments me
from the dead of the reality that awaits me;
I ponder if Mary Magdalene could be the whore
weeping merciful at his feet, I could be forgiven
for my birth into this privileged life I know none other of.
“De-throned, de-boned, and deflowered lye cowards!”
Shouts the Knight of Shining Armor
as he plunders across the battlefields
to enslave the Queen from the King
overthrown from his indestructible castle.
And so begins the Rook and the Bishop
as they circle around me in silent steps;
I can’t see them. . .I can’t feel them. . .but
I can smell them. . .I can envision them. . .
And my bodice quivers, my thighs shiver
but my eyes weep when unbounded to
glimpse the Knight stripping me of power
of position of royalty; I raise my hands
in a last bout:
“Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war!”
“Don’t turn around. . .
turn around. . .turn around. . .
brace yourself as the Devil
stands behind you.”
I hold tight, and take a deep. . .
deep. . .disturbing breath
right as the cat-o’-nine-tails
breaks through the air-
“Checkmate!” they whisper.