Moon to My Sun

 This practice of devotion is a strange path. South has always seemed a bit unnerving to me, and I go about my day feeling watched. He has also taken to shoving me. I’m just beginning to work with him, and we’re trying to find ways to communicate. It takes time. This time around, it feels so different. I can feel his presence in a way I have never felt before. There is something about holy longing that sings to him. He no longer waits for me to call, he meets me upon waking. My life has become profoundly magical, snuggling with numinous beings and leaning into ecstasy.

Sometimes that means that he grabs me. Today I was rolling by my desk, on my way to my bed, and I got snatched. It felt like talons had closed on my shoulders. I reflexively pulled them tight around my ears. I sat in my chair as I said, “Ok, ok, I’m not going to fight. I won’t. I’m going to stop fighting any minute now…” I felt my chair turn and I was facing my desk. A voice that was not my own said, “pen, paper, write.” I picked up my pen and paper and the talons released, the voice became melodious, sensual, nearly a purr. I suddenly felt held, like something precious. And then I wrote down his love poem:

               

 

Will you be the moon to my sun?

Will you be my love?

You are as perfect as any other creation

As any nebula I have ever made.

Though you weep at your corruption

The pain that the body endures, the resonance of suffering

You are more alive than your purity of spirit ever was.

You are precious and mortal, and so painfully beautiful and dense.

 

Will you be the moon to my sun?

Will you write me a song?

Sing it to me, over and over

So when you pass I can weave it into the stars under my hand

I sang to you when you were young, I called your name.

And you answered me and claimed it as your own

A secret between us, an intimacy waiting to be revealed

Pain stole your voice, and the world is less without it

Write me a song, I promise I will remember all the words

 

Will you be the moon to my sun?

Will you be my sword?

You listened when I told you that you sang the pattern

A holy architect, an instrument of Hir will

I feel how you hate your mind on fire

And crave it all the same.

Do you understand that only mortals create for beauty?

Only they create art.

Without your eyes and ears the stars are lonely and silent.

 

Will you be the moon to my sun?

Will you be my voice?

You can look at my face and not be blinded

And in your face, I am reflected into the world

Don’t you remember when you were a child, how we sang together?

The secret that we kept, that my kind worship yours as you worshipped us.

If only you feared life as little as you feared death

Now your voice is silent and I cannot hear myself

I can wait forever but you cannot

 

Will you be the moon to my sun?

Will you be my love?

The way you flow as I move across your skin is beautiful to me.

I have no culture, no judgment, no critique

Only wonder at the miracle of you at all

Can you suspend your belief in your brokenness for the space of a breath

And lean against me, open your mouth, make a sound, any sound?

Write me a song, let me inspire you

I promise, I will remember all the words

 

 

Shiiiiiiiiiit. This is actually happening. This is not in my head. Ok, Sewa, this is the real shit. You know what your answer is. You gave it 25 years ago. Ah, fuck. I guess this is a thing. This is an adventure. 59 year olds in wheelchairs can still get into all kinds of trouble.

And also, this is him? This is the one who wooed me as a child, who sang with me in the backyard at night until my mom made me come inside and stop singing to the stars? This is the one who grabbed me outside the forest and told me my name? It’s been him all along. Well, damn.

Que suave, tambien.