We made love first
in the cemeteries of Salem
with the mists created of weeping angels,
rain falls ever so delicately
against our shoulders
as our mouths water pleasure.
I was a harlot heretic then
and no one
could remember my name.
some such pleasant signifier,
someone to call out to
in the dark
when the winter comes wailing.

Did my blustery bones
wake up?
I stitch them
back together
in the midnight hours,
under the mushroom where
dust and grime
are shaken off
in protest and
and our eyes

open to the wide wild world.

No comments:

Post a Comment