Bring your church to the key – back rooms –
chimney sweep – flushed with soot –
black like cats – deep in Winter sleep.
Bring your arm to my ball – and chain
me up – downstairs – I
am a slave
to black waves of adultery –
and let’s not leave out the China, please? – In
the hutch, where dead mice sleep.
Take me to your temple – here, now go
to sleep – shackled to me –
wrapped in spite –
I won’t drop or swallow – your metal is safe
against my chest – One of us
is naked on the inside –
Christ would like how we make it here –
every Winter –
while the cats let the mice sleep.
She is fierce perfection,
parallel to the sky,
matching rock for rock.
The sky’s diamonds sparkle for her
and we stomp on her beauty,
each day, yet she is soft leather
under our ignorance.
They talk about her like I do not know
already. She is arid,
She stretches over death,
with fire. She is malignant perfection
and I am her sister.