Into your crass I came; hungry, not starved.
Cold heat within me was hard proof that you
were the sweetest thing under this roof. Carved
from the same root we are: satyr’s seed, blue
dahlia, maple sweet. It was at the inn
while in your end that our fire without rest
burned with merriment. Praise this sin while in
you. Praise your owl cry for more. Let each blessed
stroke cut us off from all other teenage
wastelands, beloved. Storm lights in our window,
burdens left by war gods, your breast cancer
— none of it matters. We let love rampage
in us. We praise the freak, love’s wild weirdo,
death’s new year — we’re ripe with hints of slaughter.