Eating hemlock, I stare
at the stars almost obscured
by city lights. The moon
is a crescent, looks cold
and sharp, fit for cutting
wrists, so I hold my arm
up to the sky, waiting.

My whole body is a stomach,
a vessel for processing
poison. My mouth is full of
leaves and my smile is white
flowers, petals for teeth.

The stars look back at me,
condescending celestial bodies,
deathless, singing arias of
time and space without end.
I've only got one song in me.
It is a funeral dirge.

02/23/2004

Author's Note: Another writing.com slam poem. Had to have the phrase "eating hemlock" in it. Inspired by hemlock itself, the moon tonight, and the flowers on the graves of the kings of Rohan, of which I know the name, just can't spell it.

Posted on 02/23/2004
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