She wanted to be my
Bitter burning dry kettle love.
Cobweb hands, I was holding the fog
in the creases of her elbows with the
black paint, soot, dust.
Her body, a sighing, moaning house,
Like there was God who favored an
abandoned mansion in our ghosted woods,
Ribs for the old wooden frames with bird’s
nests and rat poison hot traps in the corners
Her clutches, creaking door frame fingers
that she’d use to tap away on scrap thread strings
Of antique instruments in an attic
she blew her
breath away into
Crimson beating flesh heart, for a linger
of her brass hinges . Swallow up the gorging
pulse of the sun to new evenings of new distance.
It hazes, it phases all amid mist folded up in layers
on top of the trees to suffocate
The grime spiders which crept inside
her hollow lungs to echo tapping absence.
To see the forest for the trees, was to see her
for her mountain top gaze grazing along the surface
Not even to search and to be smitten for the gateway,
opened up for those who waited