INVOKING DEATH

 

The words I play with,

the dough to bake bitter poems,

grit their teeth and run away,

for they know am not their mother.

Untouched in my door steps,

the cuckoo song lies,

an enchanted thing

I dare not to touch.

His sprouted wings, white and dreamy

Groping the roots of my daisy plants,

the awkward pigeons rolling their eyes

and walking in crutches.

He, a small divine seed,  

not from womb,

commanding the fruits to ripe with time

and the dead to die again

because he created the living.

His eyeballs, all watching,

reflecting my mundane walks,

the all-knowing ember pieces.

The celibate apples in his boulevards,

ripe and rotten,

glitter under the foggy breath

of ridiculous, freakish moon.

The cigar on his tongue,

a soft anecdote, tasting of ashes,

turn to an elegy, snuffing burning candles.

 His black boots,

dissolve lengthy swan songs

 while coffin bearers

ignore his perfume.

In between my starched breasts

there resides the hymn to him,

a jewel, invaluable, unqueenly.

Gluing together the pieces of my blue skin

I wait to have my name in silver letters,

Counting its syllables over and over,

And sit on a blue veined marble crib.

The night dances in spirals,

all around me in dwarf steps,

and while I wish for him to be here,

he laughs in cold silence.

He, refuses to come near me,

a sneer in his lips,

mocking my wet face,

hissing at my sins.

Death, death, you filthy angel,

What should I pray,

Where should I sacrifice,

to have me for your dinner?


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