The Empress of Contrails Writes Upon Darkness - Anxiety of Influence
.
for Anthros Del Mar
I, on the other hand,
have lain down with
countless thousands.
My tent is worn out.
Love cries some blood
where tongues are root-ground,
utterance hard pounded,
soft tissue torn letter by letter,
tender verbs opened to pain,
that which is paid for more
than alabaster embraces
and this strangling of waists.
My tent has drained more
of love's body than a mortuary.
Spikenard scented oils taint
fabric folds and flesh. Rote,
worn pillows are hourly turned
for teeth or coins hoping
to find one true word for
'love without name',
moths repelled instead by flame,
pillows revealing nothing yet.
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poem by Warren Falcon
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