page 41

Flirting with the Husband of Death

The feeling boils
acidic, ulcerous.
If it could, it would
consume me,
would lay me down
with a kiss on the cheek.
I catch it peeping,
waiting in doorways
ready to sing my requiem.

I tell it, Do your stuff.

Once I came so close
I though my heart would
refuse me in a red explosion.
I begged, When will it stop?
Will it always be like this?

Come on, show me.

The gun, knife, rope
they have strength,
the warm
hug of gas
eyes me delicately.
It tells me I was born
to do the dying swan dance.

I don’t think I have it in me.
I don’t think I can peel myself
back to that pure and thumping black.