Self-Portrait as Azura & Abel
Not even God was there that day
when in tall grass the stone fell—
the bodies of young sheep weighed
against the husks of young sheaves,
how the divine plays favorites
with fire. It was I who ran through
brambles as my older brother fled, I
who fell on my younger brother’s body
like a prayer come too late.
But still I prayed—first whisper,
then crescendo—& as I knelt
they came to me, all his fold,
they came to him & saw
how sacrifice comes full circle.
The sheep & goats lay beside us
& made me one of their own.
The vultures came for his flesh
but I beat them back until
they recognized me. Still I prayed,
first to the God who loved
like a fire that burned itself out,
then to any wind who would listen.
Only the moon answered, & only
in a dream—she came to me
in three faces & soft amber;
she took my hands in hers
& together we opened the earth.
I laid my brother down like hope,
then lowered my own body,
the grass tangling its fibers into
my hair—but she kept
my hand, pulling me up
into morning, where I awoke
to empty arms, the flock scattered
& my hair now sage in the soft light.
Goddess, I’ll follow your footprints
into the forest, horns ahead
& pinions into the wind. My fingers
feel fire—not God’s, not that
of sacrifice, but lunar—yours
to heal the broken, to strike
back at those who strike:
a flame of equivalence, emitting
what it absorbs. You took
his body, guiding, guarding
his lost feet—but thank you—I
feel it: you left me his heart.
• • •
Self-Portrait as Azura & Cain
Though Father has given you his birthright—
a name, a blessing, a hand to forehead
& chest of wood so you can set out & make
your own dwelling, your own name, away
from the field that still smells of
your brother’s blood—Mother has given
her birthright to me—the sword,
the ever-flaming sword which the angel
who led our parents out of Eden & guarded
the gate in turn gave her, proving
creature will look out for creature
in spite of creator. Now, my foe—for
I will never again call you brother—
bleating in fear like my brother’s flock,
you cannot even face the fate
you forced on him, so God has sealed
your brow with a mark to protect you
from me, from my hand raised
like the sun. Sevenfold vengeance
God promised to any foe of yours,
but it’s you who should feel this blade
seven times red. Because God is unjust,
I shall let you go on your way, but
not before I carve, burn
the boy’s name into your arm:
and now my arm, in turn, bears
seven Abels, seared until scrambled,
scrawled letters permuting in pain
until he is my strength, my Able; my
sigil, Label; a demon, Bael; a god, Baal.
• • •
T. Dallas Saylor (he/they) is a PhD candidate at Florida State University and holds an MFA from the University of Houston. His work meditates on the body, especially gender and sexuality, against physical, spiritual, and digital landscapes. He lives in Houston, TX. He is on Twitter: @dallas_saylor.