Half a Night

How does it feel to take a woman
after she has risen from the grave
the white sheath speckled with dust
the past a flaky crust
where she lives
on the charity of a slave:
memories in rigor mortis?

Is it death you take to bed
or her awakening
when you bleed her bits
and call her a bitch?

Roll over, dog.

Your lips burn with
sorrowful mourning
for half-baked desires
that simmer
heat turning to steam
in the deep folds of
a ribbed, flavoured lie.

You are too drenched to notice
she rains too.

It takes a lifetime
to realise
obsessions are not certainties.
It’s requiem for spring smiles
as she gathers autumn leaves
in the dirt roads
squeezing her thighs.

She awaits another morgue night.