Lesbia will ride again
upon the pulsing stallion she rode in on:
her mercury boiled up as each hoof
beat the ground in succession.
she held up a glass of wine
and dug herself a grave with her painted finger,
watch her father’s heart burst while he slept
the stars are convex and the moon is on the plain.
when the plots collide with one another
constellations form, telling stories
and making up stories and writing love notes
above the horizon, above our heads
where the wine spilt in the soil bathes us
in this fresh grave. there are hoof prints
around the edge and the dogs are sniffing in the night.
it’s Sunday morning. the churchbells are ringing.
simplicity is our morning light, our hangover
from the bloody wine we sipped sitting in a plot
of moved earth.
the stone is timid, minimal
with only a few numbers and letters
and a little poem etched its side.
it took a lifetime to write—all twenty-one years.