The Crow and the Cradle
The clamour on her laminate skin,
The wire in her fingers wearing thin,
And the shimmers, in the crack of the shadows,
Followed,
Fallow and lame.
Swells of black in the sickly sallow of window panes,
The lanes of light, framed, in that frightful night.
The shrill cry of her struggle,
Muffled in the weave of glass,
In the tissue of his crass hold
-And there-
From the dark and from the cold,
And to the thorns amongst his fold.
Alarmed,
Unarmed,
The moonlight bears down on her breasts,
Doused in its rays,
left, to fester , to putrify, and to be tamed,
The swell and the shame,
And the warm in the pit of your groin,
And the rot in your loins.
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