As you danced around the golden calf,
your spinning gown
showed all the hungry boys in town what they had missed.
They heard that you had found the echoes
of that holy sound which God had spat
into the ground that he had kissed.
Your soul was tearing and a thread was dragged behind you as you fled
into the shadows of the bed in which you hid.
And as the whispers spread,
their color darkened to a red,
that stained all you ever said with what you did.
But then I met you one night through a trick of the light,
a thousand lifetimes ago.
I held your face in my hands and I traced
every line you never wanted to show.
Cause I know
we are the children that never let go.
We are the children that never let go.
As
they poured across the borders of your dress,
they crossed into the layer of the
frost around your name.
And every one of them was lost between the hammer and the cross
that you labeled and then tossed into the flame.
You know I'm never meant to try to
teach you anything but my commandments
smashed when I collided with your hips.
And who was
I to dare to love you or to interfere with
all the scars that you declared across your
lips.
Then I met you one day through a crack in the pavement,
a thousand silences old.
I
pulled your chest to my fist and I
pressed every crest that was covered in
I was forced to scavenge through the rotting crates and
salvage that was broken down and ravaged by the sea.
And as we stepped outside,
we saw the calf and then a tide of moonlight hit
its golden hide.
And it was me.