[ formerly titled “Stinkbug.” ]

You tear out

the muscle cells of her heart;

she carries them home,

so like mussel shells,

in the palms of her hands

.

You wrench apart

desperately clasped arms

and nail them to your crucifying cross

kneeling beneath

her feet

you cast lots on the discarded fabric

of her hope

as she hangs

crooked bent and breaking

.

The demented

would marry her at once

mocking every deathbed sacrament

while Bohemians

who leave the upper crust

in dust

all turn their chins

away from ebbing breath.

.

Hot urine

comforting her lurching thighs

the bedsheets swaddle them

in wracking dreams

.

You, just and

just again beyond her reach

One stinkbug

on its back

and soil sustaining worms await

Her finally succumbing sleep.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Copyright 3/6/25 Ruth Ann Scanzillo littlebarefeetblog.com All rights solely those of the author, whose name appears above this line. Thank you for being honest.