Twilight heat. Watching glowworms with no one
to share. I stand naked in the bathroom
and stare at my odd flesh. Scars mark ruin.
In bed I shuffle cards. Lewd heat. Lewd gloom.
I draw King of Wands while the night rooster
crows three times. Valraven reborn in fire.
Consort of the Triple Goddess; lover
without stain. Whose Cock-of-the-flock’s desire
do you think of when manhood rears its head?
None says mine, which is fine; rarely do I,
either. I’m the most unchaste celibate
I’ve known. I prayed that one of the lewd dead
would love me, but no. My toe-curling high
delights none, like summer heat without smut.
In Danish folklore, Valraven (“raven of the slain”) would eat the hearts of warriors slain in battle. As a metaphor for masculinity, it is a peaceless soul, restless, only able to calm its terrible hunger through the flesh of another. The King of Wands is a fire symbol, hard to control, attractive and dangerous.