while I held her bones and skin,
'till I felt her knotted anger,
and she told me to begin.
The loose youth was hanging off her;
in its slack I found her hard.
All her summer self had wasted
soft and lazy in the yard.
What great sin had been her driver
in the all-consuming plan
to have done with eating substance
and to only eat a man?
It's the fingernails, I tell you,
that will cut like sharpened glass
as I pay for all my wanting
and I take a bite at last.
"You're delectable," I mumble,
picking anger from my teeth,
"Like a brief bouquet of passion,"
though my tongue detected grief.
And it was quite the sudden feeling:
to have met death at the end
as a really complex person
with my entrails on her chin.
No comments:
Post a Comment