Antichrist

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