Morbidia

I had no one and nothing left–
no harms, no scars, no old lovers to spin
wan-flax tales about my failings, my vaunted memories, scarred
enemies waiting to take flight
at the moment of my departure.

I imagined then a cool lake where women go
to dip their toes into
lesbianism, the works, the antiquated wonders
of pearl-lite dolphins baring
broken teeth.

And I knew then of foxtail fields where
barbs spit and nibbled on your untamed toes,
where you kept on walking and walking, and the glancing heat threatens
to kill you, misunderstand you, but you are walking towards the blue oaks
shade, and a bird twitters in the ancient thunder of
plaster-white suburbia.

Retreat to me, avid lovers, readers of history and book-marked pages:
find me, and become me. Eat of me, that I may become life,
and glory, and love.

I am afraid to go home when the days grow cool and dark,
I am afraid to become one with the dust, dirt, and blessed
soil.