"rose"

sprouts from a soldier's lips,

stretched out on a centipede's back,

knowing every coroner is a breathe navigating

myself up a spider's bath.

Our words are lovers, my love;

a path of slippers whispering, lost

traipsing in fierce barnicles,

communes of moths hurting in the dark

painting memory with a lick of tact,

longing for sleep and the labyrinths

of us

and the rust of promises we could draw like bodies.

God! Why?! Did the skeleton draw my inky mouth

inside out, daggering

the seals that scratched at killer whales,

pricking the sun out and  into a sock

to catapult beyond all cross stitches of little kisses.

 

I never sought

any other

nor paraded any armies like scars on my heart,

purring.

Such a recession

is left like a surgeon's thorn -

blushing my lilly

and leaving me dead;

a knotted otter crying

"help me"

 but nevertheless wishing well.