With a heavy knife, tempered
in a hot forge of good carbon,
I splay you open like a dissected
frog in a stainless steel tray of formaldehyde-
your entrails a feast of tribal origins.


They are brightly colored and glistening in the sun
before insects and micro-organisms that feed on
denuded flesh come to complete the cycle
as old as the stars.



Your heart no longer pumping
leads me to believe that the stillness in the universe
is only temporary,
and I feel alone and strangely aware
of all the places and all the faces you had known.



Your intestinal sausage slips and slithers
through my fingers.
I empty you out
of all your internal possessions
and keep the fine shell that held you together
and stuff it full of fruits and flowers.


You would have wanted it that way.



We sit in a room with no furniture
where the telephone never rings
and I enjoy your company, but then you know
that conversation is an art.



But again and again,
your brooding silence disturbs me
like the dripping faucet in the dark hours of morning
drills a hole straight through my head
and anger spits tension down my spine and
that urge to bash the silly look off your face, my dear,
is real and undeniable.



So then,
when your fruit is rotten
and your flowers no longer fresh,
I will be there.



Love is a multi-faceted thing.

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