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.

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byTzara© 2 comments/ 1976 views/ 0 favorites

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