A Crack, in the Less-Than-Cosmic Egg

There is a low rumble of
thunder in my fist, whispering:
the Irish have a wonderful saying--
Never give a sword
to a man who can’t dance.
I wonder if they let men dance
who can’t use a sword.

Quite an accident of chance, that
in the dust of a dirty Western town
where potato-famine refugees
must have come, or through which
they at least passed, at least once,
I bought a bullwhip.

Because it fit my hand.

An extension of my arm, I’ve felt
its leather: well-cut strips cured hard
(or so I’ve gathered). Woven, braided,
tapering lines, from ends palm-wide
to tails needle-thin.

A whip is easy
to maintain.

Just keep it oiled.

Back and again, I’ve let the coil
unwind, quick, and dusty, dun-colored
lightning lick at a target: flat, square,
or round. The barrier of
sound breaks an instant before
wood splinters; a double-crack,
but no illusion. In the continuum
two vibrations gel; the distance
from touch to break
becoming a lack. Something
I command like second nature.

Seemingly the whip's devoid
of mind, but through me I find my
senses opened, and loose and fenceless
the muscles and nerves pull it all in,
yet ease the focus. Sail on
the tide of energies.
Then, again, suddenly tight
the lashing goes from subtle, passive,
to accelerated growth, and action.

Were this a ship tackle would whirl
and mast creak as sails unfurl, and
into the wind we’d be tacking. Cracking
the whip again and again, I’d
chuckle and rage and flay my own
back; push myself to say, to myself:
“Together, we make
this place. ... Together.”

Father of Thunder.

But under her gaze the storm abates.

“Show me a trick,” She has just
said, the crowded party far from
the desert, and with the whip my hand
draws back, and forward, and a flick of my wrist
will telescope my being into a flexible
baton, twelve feet long.

Bending, behind me now, I let
the tan tail roll and twist, unconstricted,
until just in position. A sudden twist,
and the lax tip springs forward
with a hum and a whiz--wraps once, twice
around her waist, with nary a hint that
I’ve caused her pain.

Maybe just the little she likes.

Almost as soon as the whip has wrapped,
I tug, friction locking the strands
around her, tightening
an embrace. I don't know why
I fear the coils will break, but
don't. This time neither do they
crack. Cannot. Not to do what
they need to, sinuously.

“Not bad,” I hear her say, a little
impressed; a little patronizing.
Her hand stroking the coils as
I pull them loose. Eve, to my sign
of Snake. “Not bad.”

And I wonder if she’ll come
when I ask.

If she'll leave the party
with me, together.
Together, when we've made
this place.

If it will fall
apart without us.

While we make
another world.
Together.