I am The Black Orchid, and I have a yearning for He, who is not mortal, The Minotaur. The mortals come with their rose petals, absinthe, and poems of iambic pentameter, the meter of Shakespeare. I do appreciate their tributes, yet, it takes about five of them to sate me. And I must take care not to hurt them.
I must think on Him. Then he will come. I send him tears hard as diamonds, and my lonliness as wide as the green, Sargasso Sea. My heart is like a geode, all dusty on the outside, with hard, purple crystals inside. Too many sunsets fading from purple to black have I seen. Alone, yet surrounded by mortals. I seek my own kind.
I shall perfume my entire body with ancient rose oils from the crypts of Egypt, and I shall braid my long, black hair that he may have the pleasure of undoing it. I shall be bare save for a diamond necklace and ear rings. Like cracked ice against the hot pinkness of my skin. I shall do my violet eyes with black kohl in the Egyptian way and swab copper eyeshadow on my eyelids. I shall make my feet beautiful with high silver strapped shoes. and black toenails.
I slip an emerald in my belly button that He may find it.
Laying down, I fall into a deep, trance like sleep, and as the candles flicker with a blue light, I see him standing by my bed. He raises me up and loosens my hair from its prison. He finds the emerald and laughs, placing it up my backside. Then he lays down next to me and runs his hands gently over my body, stopping at my woman’s flower.
The fragrance of nectarines and wet animal fur infuse the room and the eerie sound of the piping of the satyrs resounds in my ears. I melt like an orchid over a flame. And then he stops and I see tears forming in his animal eyes. With his finger he takes one tear placing it on my lips.
And I know He loves me. too. Then he snorts,and takes me rudely like one of the beasts in the field. And I think, “Split me asunder, my Love.” I am reminded of a painting called, “The Rape of the Sabine Women.” My flesh so white next to his dark fur. Moistness, and a falling from grace. A hotness like the tip of a heated blade.
When I awake I find he has left a message. He has pressed the thorns of a white rose into my flesh. I, who, am a geode, see the imprint of his body on the sheets.
CAROL ANN BOND