There is a putrid pit,
gouged out of clotted mud,
and when the sky black-belches rain,
it wells up full of blood.

Above the steaming hole,
skinny kites are flown,
and falling, wet and red with rain,
they walk on leg of bone.

By day a cloud of hair,
at night some fireflies,
illuminate two bloodless orbs
that used to be my eyes.

Twice every forty-seven years,
I'll ask you to a tea,
then you will sit and sip the pit;
the last drop will be me.

If you don't mind a little stain,
I'll kiss your downy cheek,
then you, my love, will feel the pain;
you'll smell my body reek.

My arms are empty, clenched in vain,
my mouth an open sore;
my bone-bare skull is acid-etched,
"I'll love you evermore."

10/26/2008