To burn with desire and keep quiet about it is the greatest punishment we can bring on ourselves.
You make me wish that I were dead with long
fingers for unzipping your secret, parts
that can sink into you—-deep enough, strong
enough—-to feel your soft corrosion. Quartz,
wolfbane, vervain and ginger root. What weds
all your opiates that have brought others,
girl-child, to their knees like quaking meth heads?
This is my subtle craft—-hexes, philtres,
potions, incantations—-dark love’s mayhem.
I wish that I were dead like you; tucking
your stray hair behind your ear, making safe
sleeping murmurs. Let the tweaker condemn
and crave what it will; we’re dead and living
as one: one dead urchin, one living waif.