let the droning divulge texture,
tired delicacy of muffled meat on unlucky opal bones—
not the mouthful for the favored, quick delivered
with more feeling:
sour, angry, bitter, spicy,
sweet and giddy,
burning brightly, good like whiskey, slow slashes like oceans
your murmur kidney,
your frail shock-heart.
Galaxy of eyes in a magpie’s hard drive,
find me justice in this sight.
I see flavor waking corpses. Ich bin der Gerichtsmediziner. This
is heresy. From a mouthful without treachery,
I rouse the rich man,
full bodied before surgery,
to discuss his deathly incarnation,
to tell me which refrain
I must not invoke. (Several, all the risque and readied regulars, I believe)
All prayerhouses brim with woman,
laughing softly at soft laughter, still the boldest of living,
empty as skeletons. I hid in the spirit’s cellar,
hoping the dull food too would prove itself.
I met my love in the spirit’s celler,
snorting long streaks on pale paper,
I met my love when she awakened much less
than the folk I know
whose bones still glow.
I met my love when her eyes found me
crumpled against a cellar door.
She met me with swift bewitchment; I stood stock still
on the cellar door.
She met herself and I met myself,
so soon after a silent war.
She knew the best balm: love eternal, and
so did I,
ever the hopeful.
The world was
I soon found.
The streets were roaring for a fortnight,
guns persistent as the heavy March rain.
toll took slowly over
dreamlike, ever like the nightmare,
a sweeping body full of spiders,
the fleas upon human hearts,
the hearts upon human food,
the men, women, and people who had other
genders, when they were breathing,
or even when they were peacefully dead.
But they too, walk the streets only in nightmares,
holding halves of their heads under their arms.
Many still think their most hopeless nightmares are the
hard and honest truth. I am not one of this fearful many.
Hoping became easy with Eponine.