Now that the mat has been spread
where dyed grass holds colors of our lives,
let us choose the words to weave over
our conjugal mattress. The hard edges poke
where you trace the o and the b,
pressing of lips leaves open a gash
that holds pain in the centre.
I see the moon draw dreams in the clouds
a fleck of white dust on the breast of blue
the pollen of flowers blown by a howling wind
my vision blurred as I stare at my bed
gone cold, uncrumpled
the sky unwrinkled by desire
lips like frozen grapes crumbling, tasteless.
The snake flops on the branch,
tension spreads under woody toughness.
Breeze on the hair get fossilized
in the memory of the tree,
so is the snake I prod with a stick,
it had been lifeless from the time
you dropped me in formaldehyde solution.