Baby, they don’t call me
a love goddess for nothing.
I have fallen in love so many times
with white caps on waves
and headstones on graves
bearing images of mossy angels.
But Osiris, you slew me
the way David stoned Goliath dead.
Your might was the rightest thing I had
ever known. A sunbaked moonstone,
I burned, wanting you inside me
until I realized you already were
my bones, the throne upon which
the goddess in me rested.
Your head is shrinking down to dead
and so what? Gray haired, washed up,
they said, but your eyes still gleam
and kneeling, wailing, I wait for your doubt
to be sated, for you to be seated again
upon the throne that is yours.
Know this. My ribcage is the stage
upon which you must plant your boots
and stand.
My love, forget not
that you are a hurricane.
Even dead, you uproot villages.
And though hell pillages heaven
my pilgrimages to your grave
will not stop until at last
the earth quakes and you rise,
singing, to shake the ground
you walk on. Today,
slack-jawed lackeys
keep you chained.
Hungry crows and grackles
creep over sacred ground
but not for long.
My pendulum swings
and cherubim wing from sepulchers
ready to kiss dead lips alive.
Moon forecasts call
for meteor showers
and random bolts of lightning.
Burlesque Press 