The Stills screamed quick, sharp, aching howls
Desperate retches from lurching bowels,
as I laughed with joy
In Part II, our beaten and bound lutist was driven below, into a place of shadow, iron, and sulfur.
III. Citrinitas
Wrested to a table, my chains unloosed, Lifted by smoke, belly-up, bruised I opened my fist; the key was gone The chains pulled tight, through iron hoops No lute nor sack across my back— The tube came low, above my chest
I closed my eyes—took
three
deep
breaths
The black oil splashed across my sight A smile on my lips I opened my eyes, and looking down, Though iron chains kept my body bound, tethered to my navel, my light floated still Though the engine’s hiss reached a wretched shrill I recalled the young family— The child’s fear, my mother’s magic and father's hand and knew— they all lived inside of me. Though the Stills had sucked out their sterling light, The obscene scene helped me see: They were me The Stills screamed quick, sharp, aching howls Desperate retches from lurching bowels, as I laughed with joy This sublime joke— White light shone through, glowing lantern beams, filling each shadow up to its seams, into the cracks in the rusted iron— the boilers, the oven, consumed by the fire The Stills were no longer machines but auric bells chiming harmonious themes and one shadow remained, one lying below, its dark husk recoiling in my golden glow Its loosed chains now but silken cords The time for keys, passed—and magic words Sending love through our link, my shadow looked up, Hands up, waiting—expectant plea ...