'only six feet of earth makes us all equal' - old italian proverb

 

these flowers remind me of the pale horse. like Sycorax, pulling strings 

blood red roses, dark brown earth strewn on a lifeless box of teak and tears 

 

how I would watch you extinguish the burning hot tip of a panatella on your tongue 

and we would peel off our sopping skin and dissolve into one another  

 

the stopwatch in your brain is counting down, you lift your skirt to show me the scars 

blood red roses waiting to spit black foam into your bloodstream 

 

and here is the child. a pale horse. ribs knit like chainmail

a clatter of plasma like dying stars

the doors of the ambulance hang open, a hearse driven by desperate hope

 

a lifeless box. 

 

sickly street lights stain your face with jaundiced years of flight

 

like Sycorax, pulling strings 

pulling open your tender core

spreading the gates of heaven

letting the pale horse ride through