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The Necromancer

The following piece by Left Eye appears in A Beautiful Resistance: Left Sacred.


The Necromancer

An office window opens,
A child raises his hand
A woman opens the door
A lover starts to smile

An office window opens,
A child raises his hand
A woman opens the door
A lover starts to smile

An office window opens,

It came like a cascade, like the torrent of a waterfall
It was every unbidden hope and dream
She emptied the bucket and
A flock of birds pours from the 50th floor onto city streets
The reams of paper were rain, quenching the longest drought
And as she scattered them, something inside and underneath cracked and splintered.
The city ruptured like an overripe fruit left in the sun.

A child raises his hand

Teacher, What is dioxin?
Teacher, How many languages will go extinct today?
Teacher…if the world ends and there’s no one left…what does the cracking of continents sound like?

He asks the teacher if she feels free when she goes to the airport.
He asks the teacher, how many of the pencils she bought with her own money.
He asks the teacher, when the night is still and quiet…if she’s happy.

A woman opens the door

The cold night gusts inwards, bringing the scents of mint and cinnamon,
her first words lace through the zephyr.

It is a promise,
on the other side, wild grass blooms.
It is a battlefield
On the other side is the child she has not borne,
Through the doorway, the arms of the galaxy swirl, slow and incomprehensible,

She looks over her shoulder, at the man standing within,
she says “I’m sorry,” and does not look back.

A lover starts to smile,

Dawn flows across the landscape
his eyes are bright, and something rattles in his bones like moths in a lampshade.
He stands on the roof, holding his lover’s face in his hands, as the sun comes up
Something boils in his throat, it climbs up his esophagus, slinks through his teeth, and bursts into flight.
He says, “I love you.”
I love you.

They will tell you that anarchy is throwing bricks, and not the smallest actions every day of your life. They will tell you that electricity does not run through your bones like a live wire, begging to be released.
That divinity is beyond your reach, nonexistent, the domain of the chosen, mediated by your betters.
They will tell anything to the walkers, the ones who trek through the desert and ruin. The singers, who cannot be caged again,
The dreamers, the seers, the outcasts, the children, the poor, the burning,
The burning,
We are burning in a house of vacuum that loves to die
But at our best, we shimmer while we rot
Hold your god like fire on a windy slope,
clutch this thing of blood and heat to your chest,
Do not let them take it
It is yours,
This world, is yours.


Left Eye

Left Eye is a nomad, currently in league with Paumanok, seeking to constellate the Vox Nemorensis, for the benefit of all sentient beings.


This piece, along with many other works of beauty, is collected in A Beautiful Resistance: Left Sacred. Order it here.

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