She fried her heart in the fireplace,
stirred the ashes with a stick,
wrote out her love for me with blackened tip:
A flower wilts above ground, so entomb me
with your seed in six feet of loam. I am a bulb
and will sprout next Spring,
then die again, of course. She lit another cigarette
and primped her dyed and perfect hair.
I didn't want her mouth,
only the pure burial
of my atheistic self
in unsanctified, wet earth.