Wake

It would behoove me to remove these lips
to make me mute, to rip from my throat
the chords of my voice that form
the horrifying words that no one wants
to hear, that frame the macabre
visions haggard in my eyes. My craven
mouth will meekly consecrate
our decrepit love, make homage to the rot
we bred. and What of dying love?
The frayed muscles of our hearts–drowning
on the flood of blood in the throat–the choking
of slipped tongues. I said I meant every word
and I do. Something is dying in this room.
This is the smell of a ten year wake. A sermon
churning in my gut, finally purged through
every numb limb–every harbored hate
exposed. One should never
crave a funeral.

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