Death Has Dark Hair
Death
has dark hair,
Dark eyes, unlike my own
A stalking, swift
stride longer than mine,
A strong, steady hand, and
A ready,
whetted word to cut me down.
However,
hidden in the cloak
Of his throat, Death's voice
Is delicate,
careful,
Inflecting deftly around
The shrapnel in me,
respectfully
As I, with him, avoid the questions
Asked by all
the world before.
(We
fold and burn forbidden words;
The ones that won't catch fire, we
ignore.)
Death
has snowy skin
That warms against my mouth, and
Tastes sweetest
shuddering, thrust
against my tongue, to make me hush.
(Lean,
white palms push to hold me, folded,
Knees atop my shoulders in
the rhythmic rush.)
In
this soft-focus spin
A sparking charge is built on air.
A
shadowed truce suspends itself
In the mingling of our breath.
(I
hide my face from every loss or curse
In the raven hair of
dark-eyed Death.)