Stygmataem

Your branch hands

held a sharp tweak

to my eyes,

so lovely–

you deface my grave.

 

Legions of moss and dust

gather,

starving–

because they pity me,

and need to eat–

mouthfuls of letters and stone.

 

Blood draperies,

once my youth

stream for

the fleshy torrent of younger days,

as fly brides

marry the idea of dying

and grooms wring their feet

of standing and commitment.

 

Hold my stygmataem to air’s reach,

leave the flakes to the owls

at night’s burst.