AND IN THE SEVENTH OF AUGUST

I wear your lower jaw around

my wrist, so that even now, a part

of you can taste a yellow peach cut into,

membrane; thick and oozing

down arms. This is how the living say

“Good Morning,” with hands coated

in sweet & sticky, fingers turn to hooks,

catch everything until soaked

in a small bowl of rose balm. What we

forget is that the living hunt

and prey, the desire to dull canines by breaking

fast on skin of any other breathing thing,

the magic of gnashing of seeds as if pigeon skulls.

The garden is out of places to plant lemon

and olive trees. No more branches to extend

and I, knee deep in soil, plant and bury

closer to you, seek refuge in the cool damp

grave. Here, I can strike a match against bone

and root and keep you with me,

a wick on fire, a head cut into

brain, your beautiful brain, turned grey,

a mess of memory, lobes burrowed away amazed

home by a staghorn beetle, to lay her shelled

body and turn to a scarab, a scab left un-itched,

a sweetness that turns butter

bitter as it paints the roof of the mouth pink.