Wild

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

defiance

and our eyes

open to the wide wild world.