I’m bones beneath your buried breaths. Our vault
of ink bequeaths a dozen deaths. You cut
me in our currency. A shank, assault
syllabic, dissects veins emptied. Your slut
cadaver cannot shut you out. Through page,
our slab, you stroke a skeleton devout.
My sockets slick with sympathy. Your rage
a specter, sentient without pity.
It haunts in hostile homilies. Our grave:
redundant, symbiotic agonies.
The cruelest cuts, for books, we both shall save.
Our heat you heighten with hyperbole;
we’re bound in leather for eternity.
Originally published by Moonchild Magazine
Kristin Garth is a womanchildish Pushcart, Rhysling nominated sonneteer and a Best of the Net 2020 finalist, the author of THE MEADOW (a novel from Alien Buddha Press, October 2022) and 26 more books of poetry and prose.