As someone held in high regard as the Patron of Love,
no one knew what she looked like.
Her flesh was obscured, layers of different fabrics pooled over every cell of her like blood.
*
Men that came to her with their paper offerings
daydreamed about the face that looked down on them,
for her face was like a budding rose,
buried away by thorns,
an ornate mask of knitted metals.
*
They say she was a peasant girl,
only six years old when she was chosen to be the Patron.
*
The matches that stood out like rubies on her crown
may be a sort of hint to her past,
a wink cast down by the Office of gods.
*
It makes you feel so small,
asking a god for help,
especially standing before them,
you feel sort of guilty,
taking them out of their obscurity to answer the little bit of trouble you may have,
like not being loved by the person you want to be loved by the most.
*
The Patron’s breath is soft as she waits for me and my Offering,
an application to have my thoughts become fruition.
I briefly trace over the ornate iron pieces of her mask again,
enough to realize that there are layers to the design;
parallel lines lie closer to ones face, like cage bars, then,
a forgery of facial expressions, the outlines of lips, eyes, brow-
*
“Make haste, Otto,
hearts beat and I must listen.”
*
Blood pounded in my ears,
a chill bolted down my spine and kept me fixed in the Patron’s chamber room.
I had forgotten that she would know my name, even though I hadn’t even spoken,
she had been trained by her predecessor how to spell out
the names of customers by the punctuation of their hearts butting against their ribs,
like a muscle pursing on piano keys, no one plays the same instrument right,
O-T-T-
“Oh,
I’m sorry my lady.”
*
I could feel her eyes pace behind the mask.
A sigh made the wires whistle a little.
The door opened behind me.
The breeze wreathed my skin.
The Patron turned her head to look behind me.
The door closed soon after.
*
She then said,
“If you are regretting your appointment,
tear up the Offering you have in your hand,
if not,
let me see it.”
*
She held out her right palm to me.
*
A girl was taken from the street,
she used to sell candles,
or candies,
selling trash to save up for a life.
Now, she was a god,
granting wishes.
*
“Of course,” I whisper.
I put a crumbled piece of paper - wrinkled and folded, into the scarlet hands of the Patron.
In a calculated way, each finger on her right hand closed around the soiled paper.
She looked down and made a sound similar to an amused hum.
*
What was it like,
the little girl’s face, when she was told that she would be taken from the street?
Picked up like a crumbled piece of paper, ironed out to hold a new sentence.
*
The Patron traced over the name I had written out,
Isolde;
a woman I have shared long looks at the bar with,
one that smiles whenever she sees me,
but one that I have never shared a word with,
even though so many pressed against my skull,
waiting anxiously to be said to her.
*
“Are you happy, My Lady?”
*
A chuckle rustled from the cage.
In an instant, the matches on the Patron’s crown ignited,
and the paper in her hand dissolved in a swift blaze.
The Patron dragged the smoke behind the grate with a ragged inhale, then sighed.
*
“To be happy is to be loved, Otto,
are you loved?”
“I-I don’t know-,”
“I am not sure, myself.”
*
Art by @ leslegendesdazcor on Instagram.
*
The Word Not World Series (WNW) is an interactive anthology where, once a week, I share a photo and peers give me words that inspired them. Their words inspire poetry, like this one. This poem was inspired by “masked,” @catscratch345 (IG) , “scarlet,” from @angelapsalm (IG) and “knitted” from
.Thank you for your inspiration. If you would like to join in on the fun, I post the picture prompt every Saturday on Substack, and my Instagram page @enis.st.sparrow