the words don’t come
they fear their meaning and tense in my knuckles
they fear their truth and huddle in dark corners of throat
i say memorare but the smoke becomes flesh
i say memorandum, a scientific thing
i say nothing but colors bend through glass
if one would smear my fevered face with fists of frost
stop my moaning mouth with rime
and my cheeks number than chiseled stone
would feel no phantom fingers searching
for my lips
my quarried cheeks i blush with wine
this is my blood
pewter lips rouged with flame
this is my body
this do in remembrance of me
this is not a poem
this is not
when we are finished
the coal burns out
and leaves a disc of perfect ash
that may blow away with a heavy sigh
or in the morning
i smear my lids with it
to shade my eyes
shadows blink
lotus swells purple
this is my blood
tongue reddens wet
this is my body
this do in remembrance of me
i want to ask
i want to say please
but the crimson question bitten before sounded
turns to ash in the carved urn of my mouth
but somewhere sweet unsounded
the sterling note of yes