She was all black and every color.
She ate the earth’s desolation
in dutiful caustic nibbles like red chili flakes.
And She was a cold marble
or a readied grave that he wanted
to lie on, to die in.
She saw the calling of death in his face
[like a neon sign outside of locked doors]
and She tried the lock and knocked twice.
And when his luna moth lips wrap
wet with saliva around the one syllable word
like so much frantic fluttering,
his eyes pool
in dark, in deep, in silence,
beneath the eddies of intention for only
before the corner of his lips rise as if to say,
And the celerity of indifferent white water
whisks the word away
like a fleck of panner’s gold
that may turn up on a sleepy cerulean tributary.
Which may carry it and conceal it and
pack it hungrily with mud and pebbles
beneath the molded peat bog.
And no one’s elbows will humor the clay-
and pinching craw daddies,
slimey guppies, stinking bullfrogs-
for long enough to find it.