Before I bite your head off,
let me boil your bones with moon –
milk marrow and soft ribs of light
to feed my tenderness.
Did you say the Sea of Tranquility
simmered your stock in trade?
Here – to your lips – a soupçon of truth
blown to cool across that cauldron of dust.
My teeth would carry you lightly,
the way gentle jaws of the Dog Star
carry a rabbit past constellations of dreams,
whimpering home in the night sky.
What’s this, you say? Why cannibals,
when love alone should suffice?
Eat or be eaten this Quarante-tine stew,
forty days and forty nights gnawing the wilderness.
For The Sunday Muse