I went down in the mines of you with a mule and bible.
Down there in the bloodstone
with my rock hammer and a rose,
thinking your heart was above me on the widows' walk
or below me on the skewer of a devil,
when there was never anything at all except a stupid fairy tale I told myself in a dream.
Black Sylvia, rocking funereal ribbons and indigo jewels,
tatting dry bouquets from empty veins in the phantom quick-strike,
I panned for what I could get.
Down the shaft was no place for a woman like me,
with my gingham and candles,
but I Morse'd you a ladder of stanzas while you nodded
at the station with a spike in one eye and a deadgift in your arms, petting it.
Black Sylvia, living somewhere bedecked with onyx spangles
carrying a lockbox under her tongue, bought a black parrot
and killed it with a song.
Now it flutters against the bus-station glass of our two hearts.
A red snake like a caduceus
wraps itself around her anger, first doing harm, then regretting it--
a living wreath of neurotoxins
hung on the mine entrance where everyone died,
though they whisper like lovers in these lines.
for Desperate Poets "Desperate Desires."
Music: Delta Cross Band She Moves Me