I am the wild berries between your teeth…
God knows, you need something to bite down onto
and so it is set, you bite into my flesh, twisting
and writhing, until both are exhausted,
both hunger in different ways
but the result is always the same.
Neither can be happy whilst one is suffering
and yet since we left the Irish Sea
as man and wife, peace has eluded
both our souls, now slaves to heartache
and self-doubt, you mock the children
in the grass, I mock the winds off the hills.
The river grieves for us in its passing.
The river whispers, murder, murder,
as we move across the bridge near the heart
of the city. The commonest dialogue
eludes us. With one thought in mind you tear
at the wild berries on the river bank.
Even now I am baulking at those orange berries
as you drain the last sap from my guts,
blow me off among reeds and rushes.
Wear your long hair up with your Celtic barrette
now as the little dove flies from the cedar tree at Nickerson.
Let it tell the world of a girl tortured by Death
feasting on her breasts as she reaches for salvation,
Death as real as any vulture watching the pot-bellied infant,
the kill that does not stop for any dialogue,
Death that denounces any reason,
the kill with no intent, beyond the suicide of a girl
seated in a tree swing.
Love, wear your long hair up with your Celtic hair clip
as I undress you, one more time, upon my knees.