In me you see only a passionless epitaph

shucking shadows on a cracked concrete altar.

I can’t bare to be thought ordinary, least of all by you.


My thoughts are drowned out by your nails

against my heart, by the squeal of blood

as you tighten the stitches holding me in place.


There is no fire in your roots, no fertile underbelly

ripe for admonishment. If you were less immaculate

we might still collapse together in giddy agitation.


Your hands seek only to domesticate.

I make of your ashes and tears a rosary

but my prayers remain sullen and unrequited.