[ 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.