Idolatry Poem by Effie Yalena Steyn

In my lagoon of white cotton
warm like the moon,
footsteps daring me to land
I hold your sleeping hand and fashion
(with bristles of brushes a hairs width from destroying a wall)
our future, your pedestal, my tomb.
I seek out the three stars that frame my nightly confusion
deep set in silver, gold, coal.
With quivering fingers I draw your face in the heavens
and draw your face in my head
and draw your face on the ceiling above my bed.

When you truly waken and shoot me down, I won't get up.
I'll stay here forever, too late
for the sun, and trembling I'll wait for your hate.
I thrive on it.
O, being of my idolatry, you'll have to up your game
for me to feel the same
like whisky, boost and the rain
one more sip
one more breath
one more touch
one more look
at your David-cool, cinder-hot, panic-wrought, white-flag-calm
mirror face.

I adore you.