From the music entangled,
Naked in the flowing streams
Facing forward, looking back
Venus bowered with her arrows,
Cupid doth strike the passing hours,
And the wisterias bloom.

Thrust the vine, the thorn to prick
Birds sing, the crown doth rise.
What is it about heat?
Lips pressed upon lips,
Adour that calls for fire,
Flames upon the river,
The feathers unfold
Story book pictures
Hera’s trace in this realm of desire.

In mid winter, we separated.
In Spring, the lamb was sacrificed.
Summer blood poured from the wounds.
In autumn, the sap sealed
—With all the colors of a dream—
The peacock’s eyes have transformed to roses.

Dye in our roots,
Heart beat suspended,
Reflecting the luminescent sight
The joyous breathing of the flowers
To the music of the spheres.

He bloomed, all seeing in it,
Radiant in delight,
Each plume an arc:
Survival to spectrum,
Manifestation to dictum.

I leave you thus:
What came first
The peacock or the egg?

-Selena Zeledon, the Metafictionalist