Poesía Para mi Piedra Preciosa

1200 miles–
When we met
it was cold.
Many modern meetings
are cold.

Typing isolated taps
drinking in decrypted
vestigial voices - phoned in

I recall your voice on the line
a hand outstretched in the snow
I fell asleep to the cool touch of stone.

1.5 miles–
It did not take long for us to rot in your bed.
Though I a virgin, and you a bull
It had been my hand to gore you
And your horn to castrate me

I saw it fit to leave you in hell
I left only the sign of Jonah
You found your way too

3000 miles–
The City of Angles
I awoke at 4 am
To Gabriel’s Horn

John called to say
I was a daughter now
And since I lived in Sodom
We might never kiss

I chose to dance
Seven veils–
Their head was on the platter
A kiss of Ruby Blood

Left the king to decree,

“Tuez cette femme!”