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.