The Onset of Heartbreak


Do voodoo queens dream of saints,
do they lift their coffin lids, blinking in inky darkness,
fluttering dead eyes, only to watch carrion
open the sky to evening’s weeping?

Does the drowsing grass, heavy with autumn
and as speechless as spirits
call forth the frenzy of Winter’s bite
in order to end it’s own suffering?

I reach for you in my sleep, wanting,
yet feeling only the cold moon burning my fingertips,
dreaming of ale green springtime shoots
and sweaty summer sex, once again.

This is why I sing about morning’s hush,
the soft silk of fog on bare legs,
the sweet dream of cherry lips and bubble gum tongue,
and stars that forget themselves around you.

A body in desire is a spirit encased in a body
which surrounds the spirit within,
loving it the way the razor loves the beard,
the way hunger feels about longing and need.

And if we two are falling, unsocketed by life,
shriveling like leaves withered in woods,
we can only undream our final hours and moments,
name them as the ash which we can taste.

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