M.D. Myers: Hotel Bluebeard

after Rimbaud

Sensation he is and now. We can’t
believe how golden his grin, holding
his doors open during
this heady winter, detoxifying our
food, drink, rages, troubles, feeding
them back to us.

Sensation he is and future.
His butcher’s block is ebony, his
cleaver is inset with diamonds. When
he yields, when his arm pauses, that
is far more terrifying
than its fall.

He is love made from scratch.
Takes on all women’s shapely furies,
all men’s cheerful imprecision. All
sin: been there, done that. I hide the
smallest key and wait until midnight
for a taste of his superstition.

His footstep: a fresh light
bulb falling on the stair.
His eye: harpoons dripping
off the bow.
His body, his breaths, this
shining tongue, I am
He carries the snowstorm in his
arms, ancient invasions in his chest.
He is knowing us, he is pursuing
under desert, under snow drift.

We can’t believe how slick
his hands.

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