Testament

I dream of Constantinople.
The moderns call it Istanbul, but I know so much better,
in the amber chambers of my heart.
My body knows what it felt like to breathe that air of the Golden Horn
to re-enact the caricature of biblical proportions;
not to think about the feelings, the desires and thoughts of those gilded in
gold, and pearl and silver metals,
but to become those that told us how to live,
how to worship god and behave with one another,
when the demon human wasn't in charge of who we were.

Theodora had her man construct her the might of the church door,
not strong enough to keep the Turks out
when the harbour was compromised, she died too early for his ruling
and the libraries burned the sacred yellowing words
so hard, so vicious and clear.

She wished so strong for more orifices,
so she could please more men at once-
I took to this idea at the age of 12 and thought,
greens and blues, Rhythm and Jews
what a righteous woman to set sail beyond that which
she was told she was supposed to be.

I dreamed of a cinematic vision;
one of draperies drowned in shine, the Hagia Sophia
that indescribable place I know one day I will feel soaring
through my bones, as I imagine fucking the man whose
soul belongs to mine, in those very halls, the low-lit
clandestine language of Latin telling to me the story
that I didn't need to understand in clarity, or decisions.

The robes fell to the dirt ground, as the towers no longer
stood: knock of the wall, rap of the story they ran out of words
to tell properly, capture in the sea scribe of pen reserved
for those with less lascivious tendons that she, and he
thought to recreate-

The might of gods made one with the bloody holes
in their egos, and the thought that we could be as Him,
playing out the storytime lightning battles that
they built in slaves and misnomers, their grandest
church standing still, in this town with a new name,
which I do not accept, and I will live to step foot upon.

They said the Virgin claimed her painting on the final night
of Constantinople-
too tired of these games of men,
and in need of the light behind the paint to lead her way on,
she took her painting back to heaven, in the glory of the skies
that still shine down on markets of cheap goods,
tourism rackets and the Black Sea,
laughing her whorish laugh upon us all,
as we try to navigate the folds of her thighs.

~ M. Lucia