In this hour, they're almost pretty
these bruises,
like shadows of your lips,
hungry fingertips,
the marks of your hips
and grips,
branding my skin.
Like sapphire, emerald & amethyst hued badges of our carnal victories,
where I awoke an army of stowaway daydreams with wings,
like moon-born moths,
insatiably famished,
gnawing tiny holes with their fangs,
feeding like parasites on my heart.
But the shirt I stole from you,
seasoned with the spice of your skin--the musk of lies and lust,
smells like cedar to these moths.
An easy veil,
since I am a ghost here.
where my shrill sobs and sighs, hushed in the dark,
are mistaken for distant wimpers of a starved coyote pup,
separated from her pack.
And my pain is muffled by the whispered screeches of a thousand moth wings swarming away,
leaving my bone dried carcass soul for the vultures.
Their red blood stained cheshire smiles,
look like splintered garnets scattering this last silver sliver of moon light.
...And now my bruises are morphing, changing shape,
and betraying my eyes.
These goose-skinned, muddied parchment invasions,
these undercooked contusions,
are screaming behind the stretched white cotton,
gagging my knees.
And your essence is vanishing with each sun invaded sigh that passes my pale
parched lips...the feast is over
the moths, now just dust
at sunrise.
(Summer 2011)
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