leave no footprints on the stone
sill or door jam fingerprints.
pass through the ivy
covered stucco house,
wisteria burdened garden
gate ajar, for safe passage
entreat the raspberry
the hill. flesh releases
crushed thyme’s salivating
promise to feast. on
muscles and sinew. push
and press; inhale the sage
scented scythe moon,
do not stop for poppy reminders
of sunrise. stroke the lock of hair
in your rough spun linen pocket.
finger the cutting you took from her
slumbering fancy. to hold me. red clay
dust your feet on the hunter’s track;
dandelion your bitter tongue to clean
your slow heart; run through the oak,
birch and evergreens. if
the hollies are berried, the sexes are
content. cut a sprig of rosemary. slip
behind. the pyramid mausoleum, dash
across the ribbon called creek to the squat
round stone tomb. through the iron ring
window, steal a vision
of the virgin still beneath the black rose
shroud on hard stone, under silken robe.
three times round the stone, identical
sets of prints like dried blood chant
about narrow slender feet dancing
before she went inside and laid down.
to enter, place your feet on her dusty remains.
the other way walk. imprint your wet terra cotta
mud tracks on her remnants three times round. until the latch
clicks. hinges sigh. door creaks
open. approach the stiff. knife ready
to sacrifice yourself, cut your own.
with rosemary, braid the lock to yours.
peer through her outer ear maze,
across the eardrum tautly stretched,
pass the ever ready hammer,
to see her mind. take the silver cross from her
upturned right hand. the cowrie shell
from under her left
palm. kiss the twisted union
of your drama. place it between her breasts.
wait. her eyelids may shiver. hands
spasm struggle to clench the token.
leave her in starlight green as tombstones,
I will. now that you are bound. who I was crumbles
as I rise. notice the comets in my eyes .
NOTE: This is a revision. And whilst we are supposed to write a new poem everyday, I figured this fit the spirit of NaPoRiMo, in that I devote such little time to making hard, tough, calculated edits on my poems. I tend to write, re-write, re-write again and then leave my poems for dead in the graveyard of my hard drive. So, from time to time this month, I shall resurrect a few of the elusive ones which always seem to get away from me and yet simultaneously haunt me.