The Punishing Ground
There is a little funeral in the shades of my
hands. I am blinded by the lives of the dead,
Yet you say nothing of this black spiked
madness, shaking me goodbye, no longer
calling my name. I breathe in invisibles,
blackened edges until I see no body in my
house. The death weapon smells my fear only
you could cut out; but, I live with boxes I can't
keep away from; sullen as sleep, a sacrificial
seed about to break into reverence in the quiet.
Sweet devil, there are no windows to see.
Tongue of hell, you know what lies are for.
Snuffed candle, you wound me as the world
hurts God. The raw skull grieves it cannot be
holy, chilled to death with frozen faith before
the angry dawn. I unwind all the clocks of
hazardous dreams, annihilation of the spider
queen as you disappear with devilish ease.
I break the image of you under my feet
where cracks appear as bat's wings,
secret hieroglyphics, exiled to no good.
Severed limbs rain down -
charred liver and onions;
wine and insides
on a cloth-covered table.
I gaze upon
a gracious array
of fancy meats
with bodies seated
straight-faced and quiet,
careful not to make a sound
chewing their food
or spewing out philosophies.
Fork in hand,
I examine the
dish placed before me -
bone china beneath a spare rib;
asparagus on the side.
But when the dinner guests
start chewing on each other
I refrain from smacking my lips
and asking for dessert.