Black, Red, White

Illustrated by Samantha Fulton. 

I

There are a set of tarot cards congealed to the locker  
in order: ink-bled parchment, tacky substance, oil-slicked gunmetal, sacred sequence
under semi-lit halls of chandeliers, of candles, cutting straight lines through viscous air, of circles cast and ribbon knots untied —
perhaps your arms are heavy now, 
cloak and pauldrons sagging, dripping, velvet weight amongst dusted darkness, twisting and undulating through pools of stars in every cavity, jewel in your hilt alive
your mouth is full of sand and syrup —
namely Death rears her head in eponymous pride, astride a horse emblazoned, armoured, flagged; 
a dusky sunrise dares to beacon, wide eyed and confronted.

II

Spit six times
For me.
Elasticated barrier to wanderlust, wound
Bound
Loved on days when all is hate
Colour blooms under your lips,
Flushed royal like a pixie queen.
Smear on my teeth, staccato, 
Below, entangled like two gorgons in a hot eruption of rain.
Magick brought torn lace, 
wet silk, 
hammered gold, 
but all I want is you 
and you 
and you 
and you.

III

In fourteen minutes, cook a meal, take a bath, play a game, but you don’t. You could walk a mile, read a chapter, but you choose to abstain.
Eleven minutes.
I watch tumbleweed grace a desert landscape, barren and bare; shrubs, a canyon, a valley or three. The sun bakes the scene, a thousand wavelengths beating down, relentless, moving with me. You sit atop a rock, pensive, cobalt waves snaking to the nape of your neck, lapping at your emerald jacket. I have seen you before, and you claim to know me too.
You never do.
Six minutes.
You raise your wrist to catch me, both of us fluid. One, two, three, four; you clap me closed.
One minute.
The industry car pulls up, looming in the haze, throwing dust: you do not flinch as he draws the gun, two fingertips, a laser twitch.
Fourteen minutes.
You are finished. I move on.