im sorry i forsake you

babylon is here.
the queeen sits, lively
on a throne, etched and volptuously edgy,
unsettled but smug.

I fled from her once and she found me.
I’ve been hiding,
taken and forsaken like a husband’s secretary,
photographer, intern.
who has slept in your bed?  the queen asked and at the bruise-colored dusk, I said your name.

I transmitted my heartfelt landline apology across the borders, to your door
and expected your reply on my knees in the courtyard.
I remembered how I had known you once, your tangled unfortunate eyes and history.

at bloody dawn, I saw your face below an ugly headline
and I wept, betrayer and Judas etched into
the bones of my chest.
then I understood your silence and broke my own accord,

but
her throne overwhelmed my face and I covered myself
with shreds of what you used to call my defenses
— they mutilated me. 
I had no defense really, without you to face this modern execution,
her court of money and imperialistic tendencies.
your silence, born of our union, martyred me before her.