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R u m m y   P a r k

b y   R e b e c c a   L u   K i e r n a n

45.  He Never Spoke of His Love for Her

He never spoke of his love for her
To the unanswerable desert wind,
But washed her prints
Off the copper kitchen,
The marble bath,
The black lacquer bed.
Her poems went untranslated.
He never bothered to say
She had died or run away.
He washed her blood
From 70's avocado attic carpet,
Burgundy truck leather,
The coral cove where he shivered to choke down the howling.
Simply, he buried his identifying jewelry
When the moon was bloated full
And let the wolf swallow him whole.
She never spoke of her love for him.
(This story is a ticket to survive a night.)
The unbending of lives in hands
Capable of unspeakable lies,
My tongue trying on your flesh for size.
How many trips to dispose of another body?
Please look away.

poetry & photos © 2006 Rebecca Lu Kiernan

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