La Petite Mort

He brings me flowers because my body is a graveyard.
He respects the hazard of my hands, the whole of my holy;
the amazing all of it in its all too much.
If my teeth are tombstones, he knows each row personally;
has walked among them under the fleshy full moon of my uvula –
is used to the dead grabbing at his ankles,
reciting their poetry like a heavy fog.
At night, when he is on top of me, he crosses himself
mumbling, Spectacles, testicles, wallet and watch
the way his brothers taught him when his parents weren’t around.
He lays his palms against my ribs like they are iron gates
and waits for my locks to turn.
We kiss so long our lungs beg for air but he only draws me back.
“There are worse ways to go,” he tells me
with the solemness of a psalm that he was made to memorize,
repeat again and again. “Let’s leave our coins behind.
I want to watch you watch the river Styx.” 

    • Thanks so much. I’m glad you enjoyed it. It was surprisingly one of those pieces that just kinda flowed out of me and I didn’t have to do much to it.

      • Your other poems are great too. Really had a good time reading them. 🙂

      • Wow, thank you. It’s always nice to hear that. As another WordPress member, I’m sure you know that sometimes it just feels like you’re throwing stuff out into a big, empty void.

      • I’d rather not think of that. Throw away. When the stuff hits the bottom of the pit, I am sure you will hear a clink. :p

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