Mario Muscar

Xenia

by Vincent Sirianni

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A dinner of seal, venison sweetbreads and pudding is custom each year: after which he wears the shiny remnants in his beard. His forehead is sweaty, anointed with firelight. I stifle my reflexes and steel my frame. I know the ritual that will follow.

 

I hate his body and his smell stings, while his weighted movements are labored and mandatory.

He drives another forced sacrament for the greater good of all. He will be gone soon and return in the morning. 

 

I silently help him dress in his midnight gloves, belt and boots; his coat retains the smell of exertion, fire and death. He is retched and I tell him so. His reaction is swift and brings with it the familiar taste of iron -- and my resolve.

 

My clothing and currency fill the pack. I grab the rations from hiding places amongst the hallway of boxes of post and shelves of post and files of post. I am gorging on my own reckless exodus. I knock over one large case of letters: names and stains, familial illustrations that awaken my recognition and deaden my carriage.

 

Hours have passed while sleep will not find me, only he will. Starlight pierces the curtains as the door opens and closes. His has a fragrance of charity. Hope and belief sink into our marriage bed as if they were my one true love.