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.