The harvester, with semi-shaven mane
and leather hide, reaping fruit, graves planted in a line,
threshes skin from bone, sugar from cut cane.
The sweet, smooth marrow which she sucks is mine.

Her sickle kissed with moon, her cloak her hair,
she flails at spine, wrenches tendons, splinters
shin. Fresh flesh flayed, eyes burnt a blackened stare,
she scans, seeking ripened fruit in winter.

Her scythe flashes through the rows, shatters bones,
carves a path toward me. Her lips are cruel.
She cleaves, kisses jagged edge and sucks—moans—
I watch (dismembered) from my nearby pool.

She finishes, leaves me limp, bones sucked dry;
She asks me if, unfettered, I can fly.

poems: alphabetical || chronological
blog || novel || vita
ChaoSpirals