Sestina

Her name was Jezebel, the beautiful siren of Moon;
She danced across the stars and sky, celestial creature of silver.
“Have you seen her?” asked the little boy of eight, “Jezebel?”
Her companions await her descent, the horse, the wolf.
We await her return, the thundering roar like drums.
I have seen one such as her, once upon a time.

“She slips between us like water,” I said. “There is no time.”
The caress of life enraptures all, observes Invisible Moon.
We cry tears of salt as the little boy of eight drums.
Black and white light are too static; give us silver.
We need the music; we devour, we hunt, we are wolf.
I search for the exalted form, heavenly and earthly, of Jezebel.

Look for the midnight crimson eyes of Jezebel.
By nightfall she hides before all; do not waste your time.
“There are no evil children,” says Mother Wolf.
Then the sun rises and she flees! Goodbye, moon!
We search the pale horizon for glimpses of silver.
The little boy of eight cries out, “Oh, the drums!”

I laugh because he mourns the departure of his drums.
“Adults cannot laugh properly,” she once said. That is, Jezebel.
We offer gems of rainbow; gold shines amongst silver.
They wait with the persistence of time.
The cold dawn is remorseless as the whiteness clouds the moon.
The little boy of eight starts to howl like a wolf.

“Stop!” I shout. “Are you man or wolf?”
Then there is a sound of danger, the clanging of kettle drums.
Firelight of red and gold burst; beware the sprinkle dust of Moon.
There exists a magnificent being, lovely and grotesque: Jezebel.
The little boy of eight jumps and shouts, “It is time!”
Crimson eyes gaze over us; her hair falls like streams of silver.

Her name is Jezebel—Jezebel of Quick Silver.
“Quicksilver?” she repeats, her smile reminiscent of the wolf.
You have showed steady patience that surpasses time;
Feel the glory, the ecstasy—where are the drums!
The little boy of eight touches her face: “Oh, Jezebel!”
Crimson and silver flash; the dawn is dead as the moon.

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