Communicating with the Dead
I cut off the finger,
that was tempted to text you.
First I used acid.
It bubbled. But it didn't fall off.
Then I used the kitchen knife,
the one I sometimes use to open parcels,
like that big envelope that came last week,
with the book about trees, the trees that communicate with the dead,
but the knife was too dull.
I finally got out the hatchet,
the one rusted from chopping wood at camp,
with the leather sheath,
It took it clean off.
I had some relief with the finger gone.
Lasted...oh I'd say about a week?
Then I found out,
it was my heart that had betrayed me. HER. Then I shook my head. She had called on you.
It was Saturday, before hallows eve. I came home from a party and cried in the kitchen.
She had stayed awake...had too much chocolate. Her ventricular mouthed your name. The bloody viscous nature,
the way the words called down the moon.
That silvery lust,
that mote of despair, that blood, it ironed the air.
Oh what a pity.
She did not know... that when she called on you ... you might answer.
