by Paul William Daly
Reached out to her unhealing hand and mouth
of crescent moon, I would try - burned by the
wealth of grief therein - my soul of rags and
feathers, all fettered to a heart of bone
... do I dare to praise her lips as crimson
torches, her cloth of midnight hair, her skin
of broken roses. Oh, to kiss and be
kissed by her wounding lips and be unmade
within her matchless arms, her icon thighs...
Yet in her I would fail and feint, to call
her killer in my worthless tongue, to call
her lover in the hollows of my prayer:
that she be nothing in this heart of bone,
that she be all to this unending woe.