Tags
after the surgery, bleak chest, blood mad, mutate, poem, Poetry, scars, sonnet
In the night, I feel you strip my bed clothes
off me, flesh on flesh on my hair, just cut,
drifts down against your neck. You are there, nose
nuzzled, lips pressed against the pale riot-
root scar of my bleak chest. I feel your weight
on my body. It’s not all that I feel.
Softly, slowly both of us will mutate
into the other: the hungry, ideal
hunter, the shyest of bucks. In the night
I’m blood-mad, as if the orgasm’s prey
would now cure me. As if I were the brave
one and you slowly giving up the fight.
I promise, one day you will hear me say
“I love you” while standing over my grave.
