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"Tombs of the Hetaerae*"
They lie in their long hair, and the brown faces
have long ago withdrawn into themselves.
Eyes shut, as though before too great a distance.
Skeletons, mouths, flowers. Inside the mouths,
the shiny teeth like rows of pocket chessmen.
And flowers, yellow pearls, slender bones,
hands and tunics, woven cloth decaying
over the shriveled heart. But there, beneath
those rings, beneath the talismans and gems
and precious stones like blue eyes (lovers' keepsakes),
there still remains the silent crypt of sex,
filled to its vaulted roof with flower-petals.
And yellow pearls again, unstrung and scattered,
vessels of fired clay on which their own
portraits once were painted, the green fragments
of perfume jars that smelled like flowers, and images
of little household gods upon their altars:
courtesan-heavens with enraptured gods.
Broken waistbands, scarabs carved in jade,
small statues with enormous genitals,
a laughing mouth, dancing-girls, runners,
golden clasps that look like tiny bows
for shooting bird- and beast-shaped amulets,
ornamented knives and spoons, long needles,
a roundish light-red potsherd upon which
the stiff legs of a team of horses stand
like the dark inscription above an entryway.
And flowers again, pearls that have rolled apart,
the shining flanks of a little gilded lyre;
and in between the veils that fall like mist,
as though it had crept out from the shoe's chrysalis:
the delicate pale butterfly of the ankle.
And so they lie, filled to the brim with Things,
expensive Things, jewels, toys, utensils,
broken trinkets (how much fell into them!)
and they darken as a river's bottom darkens.
For they were riverbeds once,
and over them in brief, impetuous waves
(each wanting to prolong itself, forever)
the bodies of countless adolescents surged;
and in them roared the currents of grown men.
And sometimes boys would burst forth from the mountains
of childhood, would descend in timid streams
and play with what they found on the river's bottom,
until the steep slope gripped their consciousness:
Then they filled, with clear, shallow water,
the whole breadth of this broad canal, and set
little whirlpools turning in the depths,
and for the first time mirrored the green banks
and distant calls of birds--, while in the sky
the starry nights of another, sweeter country
blossomed above them and would never close.
-- Rainer Maria Rilke
*hetaerae: in ancient
Greece, courtesans of wealthy men, prized for their beauty,
charm, and intellect
*
He takes my clothes off very slowly. Then he's naked, too. 'S
got this tattoo way down the bottom of his spine that looks
like a kind of primitive symbol for eternity. Eternity and
this beautiful boy's ass. Then he covers me with these . . .
hands. These . . . hands. I don't know how to say it except
they were kind. And he's got one hand on my cock, and the
other hand's moving around the rest of my body.
But I'm getting really nervous about something and I tell him
I just don't feel like it. And he asks what's the matter and I
tell him a bit about my Mom and Christmas an' that. And he
asks me if I love her and I tell him I hate her guts. And he
says, "Try this. Try remembering a time when you loved
her." And I say, "What are you, a shrink? Doogie
Howser or something?" And he laughs and says,
"What've you got to lose?" I don't even have to
think about it and I'm back in my backyard and my mother's in
that dress. He's lit candles in the room and it's like -- the
memory's so real I can smell it. Like she smelled real fresh.
And he says, "Thank her, then leave."
And I do. I thank my mother. 'Cause in a way, she saved my
life, right? Like, without her, I woulda been toast. So I
thank my mother and I kiss her on the forehead. Then I leave
her in the backyard. Still beautiful.
And then I'm really relaxed. And Lee -- his name's Lee --
keeps massaging. Sort of murmuring to me all the time,
planting ideas in my head. It's like he's a shaman, you know?
Like he's got magic. And then he says, "Try this."
And he tells me to open my heart, to remember all the men I've
fucked.
And I start to remember them. Donald. And Alex. We've all got
these men, right?
And the amazing thing is this kid's holding my hand so it's
like I can touch those men again for a minute. Say goody-bye.
You know?
And he keeps massaging. Tells me to see my father. And I do.
Tells me to keep breathing. And I do.
And Lee -- his name is Lee -- tells me to forgive my father,
and because this boy -- this angel -- is protecting me, I find
out what it's like, for a minute, to forgive him.
He keeps massaging, then, "Hold your breath," he
says. I have no idea what this is about, but I am too far gone
by now to ask why, so I breathe deep, like I've been dying of
thirst and he's offering water, and I clench every muscle in
my body to hold that breath in. And it's like I go inside
myself. Like the night sky and all the stars are inside my
head and my chest and my belly. And then I'm floating in the
sky, and part of it, too. Eternity flows in through the soles
of my feet and out through the top of my head. And I know that
my body is no more substantial than an outline, and even if
that outline disappears I'll still be here, still connected.
So it's like it's all one thing right? So I don't have to be
afraid of dissolving.
"Breathe out," he says. And my mind is flooded with
the beautiful parts of men. Lips. Necks. Ears, bears,
forearms. Beauty that's around me every day and I don't even
know I know it.
Lee tells me that I am excellent at sex because my heart is
open. And he tells me he thinks people die the way they have
sex. Then he wraps me up in my blankets, kisses me on the
forehead. And he's gone.
-- Colin Thomas, Sex Is My Religion
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