The moon is bitten / like the apple

under the bleats of the corvid / the enceinte tree

my pentrailium / shuts the black heart of lilies 

do not find me, I want to be alone before I leave.

the moon / satsuma hills and mouthfuls of the noose

lay bare and wrest like a baby’s fingers / digits pass

between my hands, a discoid / a discomfort

I know too well. I see your body of glass,

And I’m stranded / like the white worms

in the soil, all tossing in the dirt

with restless leg syndrome; I only

retain a monolith of grief; desert

me now. I tell the moon / to turn away;

the bud of her breast / I’m alone,

I drank the jicama roots of grief

as I turn to leave your stone.

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Come, join us. I am guest-tending the bar over at dVerse for poetics today. The theme is dark, dark, dark in the form of a ballad.

Categories: Poetry

Tags: Ballad, Dark, Death, dverse, Fiction, Grief, Literature, Poetry, Prose-Poetry, Writing