In sight — it must be right. Feeding spectral

menstrual blood to me in a High Sex dream.

 

Gobbets from off dead fingers. Your menstrual

flow, these queer pheromones, love supreme

 

charm, still survived with your breath. This surprised

me. You’d died at nineteen — lust must feral.

 

I’d placed on your grave a lodestone baptized

in my blood and cum, spirit salt, candle

 

wax and prayer: “we will all the pleasures prove.”

You heard, followed. In dream magic the ground

 

is wet with your chamber lye, sky a flow

of need, binding me. Now feed. Your floods move

 

through me. I know. Blood-cream. I dream and drown

all numb. I know. Your dead girl’s cum. I know.