Friday, May 3, 2013

bloody oblation wholly for him alone



With no other light or guide than the one that burned in my heart.
This guided me more surely than the light of noon
to where he was awaiting me
--him I knew so well--
there in a place where no one appeared.

O guiding night! 
O night more lovely than the dawn!
O night that has united the Lover with his beloved, 
transforming the beloved in her Lover.
Upon my flowering breast 
-John of the Cross

Hey, Samson! Hey Samson!, cried all the annoying big kids next door, Where's your hair, Samson? Where's your hair gone?
Samson curled himself up into the fetal position on his bed and cried himself to sleep.

He was awakened by an all-too familiar set of velvety fingertips touching the cold skin of his bare feet.
"This little piggy went to market; this little piggy stayed home,"
hissed a voice that punctured his happy slumber.
Delilah's heavy whisper woke Samson from his respite from the world.
It took all of the little strength he had left in his muscles not to cringe at the stifling sound.
Her voice hit him like a heavy wave of too-pungent incense spread vigorously by an over-zealous altar-boy.
He felt like he was suffocating in silk.
He could picture her lips forming the words of his least-favorite nursery rhyme.
But he didn't move his eyes from the desert landscape of the white plaster ceiling.
"This little piggy had roast beef; this little piggy had none"
Her soft fingers wiggled each of his toes, her sharply manicured nails scraping his skin.
She must have filed her nails, he thought.
He didn't bite his lip, and he barely blinked.
He exerted every ounce of strength he no longer had towards keeping his body as still as a corpse.
As he listened to Delilah's viperous breath spit out the words of the nursery rhyme, Samson shut up his ears.
"And this little piggy cried: 'wee wee weeee'"
He stopped the hot angry tears that threatened to pour out of his eyes.
He stopped off the hot angry words that threatened to spill out of his throat.
He stopped the blood, bating in his cheeks, as he ignored the feelings of humiliation that came from being treated like a child.
"All the way home"
To be fair, though, a child of five would have had more strength in his body than Samson.
He had been reduced to a bald, helpless baby.
He thought he felt a sharp nail scrape the top of his toe.
He felt a small warm drop of blood spill out of the small scrape.
With a rustle of silk and chiffon, Delilah disappeared.
Samson rolled over and buried his face in his itchy cotton pillow.
The room was quiet except for the buzz of the hot air outside, and the sound of Samson's ribcage shaking with silent sobs.
He didn't roll over again until the pillow was soaked through with hot salty water.
--
Delilah said to him: look at what you have become, Samson: a worm and no man at all.
Samson looked Delilah straight in the eye and said: I'm not interested in what man can become. I'm not interested in what sort of great things man can achieve, nor how perfect he can be. 
I'm interested in how much a man can love.
Delilah raised her eyebrows and smirked a smile of smut.
Samson bit his lip to hold back the venom he wanted to launch at her.
Not lust, Delilah. 
Love. 
I don't know with what else I should concern myself.

With a gasp, Samson awoke from his feverish dream.
He found that the sun had finally set and the stars were now shining in the velvet night sky.

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