Some excerpts taken from my collection The Man Who Married Death ©.
The silk of your flesh,
The caress of your lips,
The scent of this passion,
Has made all this digging
Thoroughly worthwhile.
The palest of willows, your still flesh glows pristine,
Its only cast shadows, a spread of angel’s wings.
Alas, as your glow beams ever brighter,
My spirit fades to shades of far darker.
For your wings shaped like angel feather be no other
Than sweet springs of blood, their color, ruby luster,
Over ordure meadows and thick-slimed falls,
These hungry hands indulged despite each bawl.
My starving hands which bore that blade of unhinged lust,
Bore it with no remorse and made you fall to dust.
But as you lie here, and yet not with me, my dear,
I yearn for our past with great greed and forlorn tears.
I remember first my surprised delight,
At your marked resilience to your plight.
’til it laid a fray you bore my whip’s flaming kiss,
And ’til my hands peeled sores your neck embraced their bliss.
How my stakes enticed your lusty wiggling,
Their iron pleasing deep, hard, and stinging.
And with each, you regaled me with the kind of screams,
Dear one, I have heard only in the best of dreams.
And when tools fell, dulled, and all remained was my blade,
I completed you, stabbing, slashing, until splayed.
My love, my love! Sweet relief rained down upon you,
Cool rivers of satisfaction—plentiful, too.
And I must admit, though your eyes see me no more,
Mine still feast upon your every bruise, slash, and sore.
You may gawk at the heavens or implore the angels above,
But to them, your drenched wings will never deliver you, my love.
Yes, oh yes, with only me you’re destined to stay,
Each succulent mouthful stores you ever away.
My pristine angel, in me your radiant glow shall disperse,
To lift me once again from my bleak depravity—that curse.
Because, dear one, you are my better half—isn’t that the saying?
My curse’s remedy, your sacrifice keeps me ever brightening.
Hollow and honed,
I’ve made peace with the bones.
The bones that are all that’s left
These days . . . months . . . years later.
A room I’ve made of them—
Dull white bricks, long and lean,
Stacked crisscrossed all around.
Soothing must of skeletal dust.
Within, carries one cry,
A garish symphony,
A single echoing word
That the last friends spoke
When flesh bedecked their bones,
“Goodbye! Goodbye! Goodbye!”
Surrounded by my bone walls.
I’m spinning,
With arms outstretched,
Whisking up
A breeze so thick I almost feel
Those long-lost friends’ embrace once more.
Above these lean white bricks,
See flashing vibrant feathers,
Birds flapping and singing
Beats and tunes good for spinning.
How their shapes whirl and weave
Through gaps between these bones.
Blues and reds perch atop.
Yes, meeting and nesting.
I know I could join—I know—
And climb these bones like steps,
Escape their endless adieu,
And spread wide my own wings.
But you must know,
As friendly as birds be,
I’ve never seen one stay
As loyally as these bones.
For they’ve eyes to see farther,
Hearts that want and hunger.
They have those blasted wings
Which take them fleeing on whim.
But bones care only for space to lie,
A space to utter that last goodbye.
See, I think it better to befriend
Only those who plan on staying.
So in this cage I keep my home,
To my loyal bones adding and tending,
Spinning and whisking,
Spinning and whisking . . .
Amy Langevin 