And when I think of you,
I think of baby’s breath.
How your trill blows give life,
Steaming curls around lidless pots
Set limbs in sterile fire
Those little white spores dotted
Around red roses, small lung leaps
Falling to your mercy, the leant knee breaking away
Caught as the whispering arm teases
Another cold moon from the sky,
Light hanging on his limp pallor
A grace of connective tissue cleaned of
Tears that we lost in movement,
Carried from swaddling hammocks to tomb.
Frozen in that motion, your back
Tilted as a feeding bird, bent towards open mouths:
You once said, ‘nothing in life but death.’
The sequelae of truth-seekers
Are pure water seeping through
Your incomplete book of mystics.
Weaving your web, you hold crimson torment
And marching maggots climbing limb to limb.
Enlisted to end – by these artisans of disaster –
Still I watched you paint a million murals
With your face cackling, a gathered and powdered saint.