the broken glass of last year's late night celebrations
as the sun gently bites my bare back, now black
from neglect. My hands dig into the hard ground
like a lioness' claws into a gazelle, spilling life
from the Earth into the open air that wraps me tight
like an axillary bud, warmth from the wounds
dripping up from the glass in my chest to my eyes
covered by moss.
Still, she would always say before the last breath
of my life. Be still and I'll sing to you a string quartet
with violins crying and pleading for mercy
on cold nights in the autumn holocaust, the altar
itself turned to flame, the taste of rotten meat
tied forever to your memory. I sat still,
prostrate as the metal blades hummed behind
my head, and collapsed into kaleidoscopic
shafts of light and warmth. I remember her wiping
me from her cheeks, her hands still smooth.
I love this Rudi dear. Beautiful.
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