Friday, November 22, 2013

Sugar Skulls

She glides up behind me as I’m standing at the mantle,
running my gaze across the marigolds 
and the chalices full of rank liquid
and most of all those gleaming crystal skulls grinning
up at me. She wears a skull as well, 
a glittering plastic mask perched atop
the dark tangle of her hair.
Her shapely legs in black stockings emerge
from beneath a long black t-shirt
printed with a skeleton.

My desire is as difficult to hide
as bones bathed in xrays. 
I want to press myself against her, smear
that deep red lipstick, want her to lead me down
to her basement bed, want to tear those bones
from that flesh, want to feel her manicured claws
pull me into her. Oh Mother Death,
I want to bury myself back within your womb.
The candles flicker on our glistening skin, the dogs
raise their heads from their paws at your moans.
I want to consecrate this Day of the Dead
with a life-affirming fuck.

I didn’t, though. I slipped away 
from the party without touching you once,
without saying goodbye to the hosts,
slipping on the wet leaves as I made my way
through the night, out of breath, nearly running,
my heart pumping surprisingly hard
for someone who thought himself
already dead.

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