The god in me does not honor



the god in you. The god in you



murdered me once, and once



was more than enough.



So the god in me, adept



at keeping my nature warm



and inspired to love the benign,



now prefers the chilly air



of indifference, something picked up



like a virus from the most vicious



of mortals. The god in me



regards the god in you



as suspect, though sad



to say, it wasn’t always so.



There were the generous days



in the beginning, when every word



was made flesh. In the beginning



the gods in us were content



to let us go on



behaving like perfect mortals,



which is to say imperfectly,



which is to say with our tenderness



fully intact: the good kind



that let us gladly undress



our trepidations, and pleasure



our solitude into a blissful



oblivion; and the bad kind—



invisible woundings



no compliment or hot kiss,



no confession of the amorous



could soothe for long.



And then, when the mortals we were



had done enough to remind us



that to be mortal is to be susceptible



to the secret agenda, the cruel caprice,



the soft but eviscerating voice—



“at the mercy of a nuance”—



the god in you decided it was time



to act. A dark god, in need



of a human sacrifice, smoothly turning your back



on the earnest and their pathetic pleas.



So the god in me, no stranger to the aberrant



and the abhorrent, now has no choice



but to respond in kind. A pity, really,



since it has been the dream



of so many gods to find themselves



in some quiet room, the burden of power



slipped off and scattered



like clothes across the floor, the light



of late afternoon a kind of benediction,



and everywhere the gratitude



for the privilege of feeling



almost human.





