Less from the ghosts than from a kiss you lost on me,
the cemetery comes to life. It’s warm with cluster bombs.
It thaws the blue of lips and melts our open chests
It burns with gasoline. Napalm: your kisses clinging,
blister skin. You’re soft from razor-blades. your palms
are warm, you rest your wounded head between my legs.
We shot the sparrows and we killed the hawk, singing
love-songs for a better cause; we planted daffodils
and burned to fertilize their bones. I cup your breast
with hands still warm from death. We are Kalashnikovs,
the butterflies that pick both scab and poppy-petals.
Cause we make love on meadows and on the battlefields.
Linked to toads, where Shay want’s us to explore incongruity… Don’t know if I succeeded, but setting love is set against death on battlefield seemed like one way to do it.
March 16, 2017