Take myself. To know coeur. As us. Tonight. The thorn of to have—
What was done before the knife’s plunge. Without breaking the I am for you. That is no pain.
Before the sting of flesh, imagine—
To be played in the round. Plosion into fragile am, nor along the slightest edge: forsake our collaring debt, our lovers, our apologies. Never the spill after making.
If you are disinterested. Guess—
You is there as place. So, knife my I. Then my bowels. But continue the stitch. And come: palais of your Godliness.
As we are—knife edge sharp, as of yet untested. That is my foolishness: to call for my mother, my father; for you, my lover; my holiest God.
All worse than anything you might imagine—this, the making of a family: footing alongside the grave, first spill of earth.
We will ourselves. Already c’est inévitable. So, be tonight, sharp against the knife’s failed sting—
Blade plunged in lavender, bevel edged with honey.
Then, everything calls to you alongside the spill of clear desire.
I am becomes cold, unbearable. We is shaken out over a pit of hungry earth.
C’est inévitable. The moment before the sting, before our undoing—garland of palm fronds
Twined around our throats
My own death at the margin’s edge—years’ scattering of debt a wrongful apologia: voices Of lovers and of the closest of friends, last letters never sent
Afterward, you remain, reveling in God’s godliness, while I am cast out to weep
To shake, to spill my bowels over the ground’s sweet song
Take the knife, mon coeur. Always, the inévitable surrounding us. Here is the edge—sharp, as of yet untested.
Then, our foolishness caught in my throat, chambered with hesitation.