COSTUME PARTY IN THE CEMETERY AND A LOVE STORY PART IV
We forgot to lay out our bones
in the places
to the sea
under the October stars.
This year I wanted to play
while you be my sea monster
and swallow me whole.
I wanted you to taste my whole
body: hair, eyes, teeth, and skin
sliding through your throat until
I lay in your belly; dark, warm,
This time I wanted to be inside
Last year you played Perseus while I
You cut off my head before I could scream
and betrayed my beauty with a bag.
You made love to my torso later
on the granite stones and rusty leaves.
I tell you it’s too late now
it’s almost November, and I can’t
find my femur.
But you tell me that time doesn’t matter,
don’t I remember?
When you are dead
time doesn’t exist.
ISIS IS SICK OF FINDING ICARUS DRUNK BEHIND THE SHED
You wanted your birds back
so I told you to go find them
in that hole under the blackberry bush
because your preying posture isn’t perfect yet
and your bones are not porous enough
and your heart doesn’t know the intensity
of ten swords yet
and you have never died yet in the morning
with the rising sun burning caricatures of
all the creatures you have ever loved into your eyes,
and because you betrayed me and yourself
(most of all)
by clipping your wings
and attaching them to the field mice
behind the shed.
Those bastardized birds knew all your secrets
and so I ripped out their throats
because you aren’t ready to talk yet, but
I already know.
And the hole under the blackberry bush
is deep enough for you to
hide your head from the setting sun.
Kiley Creekmore is a writer residing somewhere in the universe with cats and satyrs. Her poetry has most recently been published in Gyroscope Review, The Ginger Collect, and Street Light Press.