Louise
Longson

               I would not keep it in the bedroom

               in a skull-swagged majolica pot; I

               do not need the constant reminder

               of living death—exhausted, sleepless

               nights— nurturing the mementos

               of your cruelly spent love.

               Corruption is always hidden

               underground. It flows like the dark

               taste of tears, salting the earth.

               A bitter scent that grows green,

               lush and flourishing; leaves blood-

               red petals strewn on the ground.

               No one knows where he has gone.

               He is something buried in the past

               now; part of another unheard tale

               of untold ears and mouths filled with

               dirt. On the windowsill in the kitchen

               it attracts less notice, less suspicion.