Have I ever told you
That I practice bondage
with serpent tongues
of crime scene tape, unwinding, like
Medusa coils and Rapunzelline sighs?
That between the malnourished gaps of my limbs
springs a wintry ghost town,
untouched for decades as the slopy shoulders
of slumbering volcanoes,
dormant in the ceasefire of their molten rage?
That I am a page,
torn from the good book;
the analogy of a most celibate decay
celebrating the anniversary of my molestation
without the orgasming symphony of dissonant champagne flutes,
without the recursive fanfare?
That I am saving the dregs of my bones for better days?
That your slithering fingers strain my umbilical cord,
a hollow tunnel,
a marionette piano wire taut to tautness,
pulled apart as masts of ships in bottles?
That you could burn my limbs with lightness
and I would crawl on my belly
to resurrect the splinters of your Eden?
caught in the crossfire
of an armistice