Tantris is blood on my lips; fingertips digging into my hips. Forgetfulness. A boy with wounds burning his bones hot and cold. He's spilling himself dry on my kitchen floor, and I alone to wrap my arms around him.

His voice is silver; vermilion Ares shut up in locked castles (wounded over modern wars and his inability to lead them.) Tantris he says, bloody breath to command silence and guidance. I am his medieval wife with my pockets full of herbs and my belly high with children born to his crown.

All of my memories of him are like love letters; how I fall asleep each night to invisible hands and make love to men who scream Tantris. Chant it like a battle cry. Call it out to me across the street lights and ocean waves. Tantris, Tantris. Preach the texture of his skin to me like a priest at high noon; pull my hair up to chop at the scalp line. Call my husband Tantris and I will reveal all of my secrets. My wisdom. My cursed lips of dried blood. The mixture of ourselves together (in holiness) is still hot on my hands, still boiling my insides.

I'm still patching his bones back together. I'm still sitting in chest level hot water whispering: Tantris, Tantris. I'm still on my knees begging. I'm still holding a cloth to his forehead. Still make-believing. Still dreaming in the arms of cold invisibility.

Enchant me (if you think you can) with Gods as powerful as his naked touch. With thoughts as fulfilling. Bodies, as overwhelmingly connected as sparks overflowing like wishes that children are sent to bed with. Food that does not fill. Days that do not end until he is there to look upon me. Creation of selfishness. Creation of doubt and knelt prayer. God of Gods.

Tantris is still striking his fist down on the world; still falling against my womb with welts and love. Love is the only scar that has marked my body. His name is the only sound that my language can utter correctly. Tantris, I say into the darkness,