There is always the choke
the insistent dry eye
the gurgle and gag of heart thumping in throat
the moonless halloween chill snaking through belly

When did love become something to mourn?
the grave of the unborn?
It is stale autumn and dead fingers clenched
It is circle zero
an insipid ache

I am the bayou’s harlot scourge
drfiting empty above the silt
hunting a wet grave for this rotting heart
Better to be a ghost, I hear my mouth rasp

I am chalk-faced and hollow
skin drum-stretched across bones
Looking for hands bold enough to pound
me a rhythm

Irises like sand
Let the willows whip the wind for my sadness
I am a fruitless well
tears are the privilege of the living