I can see her drowned
body in the bog,
the weighing stone,
the floating rods and boughs.
|
|
her shaved head
like a stubble of black corn,
her blindfold a soiled bandage
her noose a ring
to store
the memories of love.
|
|
I am the artful voyeur
of your brain's exposed
and darkened combs
your muscles' webbing
and all your numbered bones:
|
|
you were flaxen-haired,
undernourished, and your tar-black face was beautiful.
My poor scapegoat,
I almost love you
|
 |