Messages Gleaned In Mourning
i am lock and key,
shock and satiate,
ingratiated to the sea.
waving at the gate,
i curl like the toll of a bell
across the horizon of a triptych sky.
i die unfurled in a metallic farewell
whose dross demands a knell emblazoned
as a cipher in the chamber of your eyes.
do not cry for me.
did you know that the bell has a head that is crowned?
she has shoulders as sharp as swords,
a waist of time, a mouth bereft of taste
whose tongue is tilled with sound.
she bows down and prostrates to stillness
when her sway is bound.
all seven stations of the cross
divine your eyes from mud and moss.
one to peel back sin,
two to slough off faces,
three for eyes, four for tongues
leaving just the throbbing center skin
to hold a nest for settling into words and lungs.
all you need to know of your heart
is that it is a moth spawned from fireflies.
teeth hungry for cloth,
born from and dying by the same source.
your eyes are valentines patented in fire
and in the margins of your glance moves the sun.
love is a stonemason in a mansion of bones
-one hundred feet of concrete
secreting time against a frantic architecture
of folded moans.
we are mapped against the longitude of blood,
latitudes of loving strapped to the skin
with the weight of a cement floor.
we are the door frame,
we are the space which came before,
we are the structure of the long goodbye,
of a rupture pushed and a rapture pulled,
of shudder and slam,