Rueful for a dead lover. For three nights
I have been at the graveyard’s dirt crossroads
praying for a wanton haunt. No ghost-lights.
No arms that hold me down; kiss that explodes
in chill across my skin; voice in my ear
going, “shhh, baby.” I’ve abused this skin,
dripped blood and cum in the dirt; read Shakespeare,
Sappho, Blake out loud. All the discipline
I’ve learned keeps me coming back but I cum
alone. Each morning my Love-Crone candle,
Lilith root, Follow Me Ghost trick remains
untouched, sperm-sticky, contrite. “Gimme some,”
the song goes, “Dead girl/ Gimme some.” Rueful
for what must lay beyond these veiled domains.