by alloe mak
edited by killian mak and liam mason

at night, i dream of Philomela
i dream of her songs and her beauty; of her condemnation waxed poetic
of knotted sorrows, weaved wreaths of bay
ripped vocal chords culled silent tears.
at night, i dream of Philomela,
how you tell me she sings from the skies.

at night, i dream of Philomela
what she said when thereus arrived
of what she wove, and if she cried
is it just as merciful to tear the wings off her back?
cover her in a sheet,
throw her in a trashbag,
strip her of her feathers and take her from her body?
what is redemption for once unsullied school shoes on which blood drips from fingers woven raw?
did you know female nightingales cannot sing?

thereus laughs; caws as he watches me writhe in bed
did Echo ignore his taunting birdsong as she repeated narcissus’ words? did she weep at that mocking tune?
did Leda mistake that swan for gluttonous hawk,
for a moment, smile, and thank the gods that man had not come that day?
and as the beak clawed into her legs
white wings seeped in wine
blasphemy! sacrilege! feathers strewn across the floor!
heresy, heresy is that theophany you declare!
consecrate the act, demand metanoia—
blessed.
is that impossible to profane.

the day breaks.
surround the arena, gawk fear at beatified sanctity
what beast could deface that lament of apollo?
not Leda,
Leda,
do not cry, do not cry!
for the remnants of the foul.
favoured are you—
fortunate contagione!
never weep for glorious revelation!
no casualties, no fowl play.
no victims, only sacerdotes to consecrate
and heal our desperate vertigo.

thereus!
prophet, saint, apostle.
blameless and denounced
as satire derives from tragedy and mime from comedy
i hope parody to be made of your rhapsody
each genuine note curled to ridicule
for the music in your words to be torn asunder
i hope your birdsong be turned mechanical
to the dismay of all emperors
and from that horror birth the art of prose
so that all can celebrate the death of your tongue, and none lament that lost tune.
heretic, heathen, reprobate!
entrenched in eternal parentheses
tongue-tied, limbless snake;
can your author save you now?

and come the wings of God
and come the wings of God

it is the unattainability of disrespect that makes that existence parodic
the jester, obsessed with keeping her love at a distance
laughs and hopes that humor can do what dreams do not
she charges her characters full with destiny
and hopes to fix them in the irrevocability of an infernal beyond
incongruous with the physical—
infinite recapitulation of existence in true sacrosanct
lack of the eschatological might bring that redemption found only on silver platters.

through my obstinate gesticulations
of the impassive mime’s face
i hope parody might condemn her unforgettability as profaned ophanim
for all the jesters and the tears, turning wine into water
forcing that sacred man into the sphere of human law;
neither sacred, nor holy, nor religious
freed from all hallowed names.

there comes the exigency and guttural panic
for all the laughter and all the frenzy,
of all my pitious prayers,
despite constant impiety,
blessed is that incapable to profane
in your execution and exhibition—
looking through the screen at the watcher of your pornography
as you remain indifferent to your nudity,
pure means without complicity
you are blessed with the pens of thousands of poets.

she claws at her neck,
her arms,
her legs.
when looking through the daguerrotype
she looks back, and i know.
she cannot bear that mute apostrophe.