hers is not to be called beautiful, but
to dig in medical books for mystic
knowledge, ancient Hippocratic secrets.
hers is not a vampire but singing blood;
hers a canticle of knowing, cryptic
with obtaining and rebuking regrets
for their hand-wringing or their rash of flesh.
hers a taut oath to a paralyzed god
of self-denying, a hooded skull-like wretch
who wraithes her with pierced hands, an iron rod,
and a manic word: sprechstimme of scripture.
hers is floundering, patient smiling walks
every day, every day; censure
of routine: love eats her like waves at rocks.
Love eats me like a vampire, blood for her
and I know distal alabaster chimes,
her eyes, her eyes, a routine of furor;
I know her rage for me. I know my crimes.
her is mine to protect from blasphemy.
hers a soak in mirrors by painted tears:
I remove my façade of infamy
and rock her, rock her, that hells are her fears:
my hell, the burn of sins unforgiven;
and hers, the flame of lone years in heaven.
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