You unlock your mouth in dreams
undone by my adoration,
my heart continues
to divide.
What may I offer you to feast upon?
This body is sacred, this body is sick.
I drip as you beg
at the plastic edges of my sweet disturbance,
cry for the softmilk of my blood.
The pallid grasp of chemical hands
drowning the streets in her venomous drink,
sing for the weakness of thy flesh,
how charming the scent of dark, ripe seed.
In the place where love has never lived,
the mourning of love grows here:
spread wide and sodden atop the fading gravestone hills,
a cold nightwind gives birth
to a dying winter sky
our pleasured anguish writhing
beautifully beneath her.
.
.
Allison Marie Conway 