Your lullabies sing
of how New Moon night is that of poets.
When a fortnight full of eulogies and prose
on craters, the crescent, stolen light,
tidal waves, and the face of a beloved,
black, from ink and pain
wraps itself ceaselessly around our moon,
The Poet makes darkness her mistress.
So I wake up dangerous, humming hymns
of how each time a newly broken writes of the sunset
his poetry is wrung out of every crumpled sheet
and dripped down at twilight
until his romance drowns his muse completely.
Your letters read
of how caramel cobwebs form underneath
the tongues of those who cannot express love.
That the dry and sour in their mouths is
in fact only the aftertaste that sugar left behind
leaves behind as it melts into acidic
oblivion and that pungency slithers down their throats
if they are mouthed love for long enough.
So I emerge fearless, embracing the shy
while the honey they were afraid had rotten bitter
pools on top of my collarbones and spills as
I move, drenching me in glaze
until the sweet, divine nectar drowns me completely.
your whispers speak
of how you are of too much essence to me,
so I chant cries into canticles, while scraping
every destructible part of myself with the ends of flowers
you pluck obliquely, and write with blood about
the colour of wine roses
until all that is left of me –