Lately, I’ve been stepping slowly out of sleep
with your hair soft and tangled on my cheek,
the arcs and tangents of your body
a holy geometric query against mine.
Through a stinging damp that blurs my eyes
I trace along your frame,
reading you like a story
where bones become words
and blood becomes ink.
Staring through the unclear mirror
we forged and framed with fire at night,
all distorts and turns to ice.
Your gentle hands turn to stinging beetles,
your sweet-ish words to cackling bird-calls.
The warm feathers of your hair
turn to cold, wet grass or weeds,
clinging to my face and itching on my skin.
Glazing the danger of love
(or lust) onto both your beauty
and my pain, I turn to ashes.
Your heat in my bed,
my fear in my throat,
your kiss on my shoulders,
my tears on my face.
The fire is out;
our landscape is scorched.
Perhaps my charred self
can turn under the dirt
and feed a new garden,
or call back the blackbird
she seems now to have lost.