-1Wagnerian overtures of Tristan

Tristan speaks in a violent
Germanic gusto, while in his
Slavic hands he takes the blood
of martyrdom;

drinking it like a dreary wine, the
most lavish poison, the most
inhumane elixir.

The energy between them
is hot, thick with night air,
and stifling, as a room
full of smoke,

a cerulean blue;
he says:

this is what red tastes like.

This is the shape his hands take
when he pulls her toward him,

a crescendo, and his theme is
oboes, cellos, and clarinets,

the sounds bounce off his
armor. Tear the velvety
spine of two anthropomorphic
lovers until they are
separated at the rib cage,

two ghoulish howls break the silence,

then ties them back together in
harsh knots. Their love-making
is owlish, quiet, soft…

And Wagner looks on, amused.

I do not love Tristan for his face,
for his words, dribbled prettily
in esoteric riddles,

I love him for the way that he loved her.