By Ananya Iyer
A shroud of perpetual rumble and clap
twisting and curling around its own knuckles
of blinding clawed lightning squeezes its python
body around the damning head of the hex-infected
tower penetrating God’s domain. For years
this storm has writhed and wailed above its cover
of delicate gold leaf distracting from its failure to once
provide the ground this obelisk sprouted from
with resurrecting rains. The roots instead drink
all signs of usable resource into its gullet
to fuel the alchemy that drives its internal cogs.
The doors’ seal, a cross of steel beams riveted
onto a plywood face, boasts a moniker of lofty esteem.
The twisting corners of his confident grin will claim
that he is a learned wizard — a sorcerer of the Divine.
Behold, the proof of his power and wisdom, done before
only by the Son of God Himself: See how she dances
for you, how her crimson gown waves you closer
and flutters when she flails and kicks her feet.
Her jeweled veil reflects what flashes can overcome
the dark clouds, and her twists and turns share
the sweet perfume soaked into the fibers. You imagine
how beautiful her face must be, how rosy her cheeks
should her master allow the endless dance to cease
so you can at last catch a proper glimpse and see.
Like the windows of the tower’s unholy cave,
her face remains disguised by design. Behold her
delicious floral scent and glittering dress, and pay
no mind to the ghastly gray shade of her skin or the sheer
weight of the perfume’s layers poured over her thinning
hair again and again to mask the sulfur and ammonia
of her rot. The undead maiden begins to stumble, her veil
slips from the pins in her scalp — and the warlock sends her
dancing away through the tower’s doors. Worry not,
he assures you, his smile friendly and wide. She will dance
again for us. She will dance on command, on every stage
she can be placed upon, as long as you come to see.
By Ananya Iyer