Phantom Pain

 I, the would-be bride, rattle in the evening's afterglow, ripening like the 

Mulberry trees my Papa had in his childhood home 

when he was seven or eight. He often compared me to that 

tree when I was younger because my skin aged over my skeleton,

hugging my bones loosely. Now I have blossomed, 

& my lips zip up, & my flesh tightly 

embraces the thorny veins that dance under my bloodstream.

It reminds me of the night we collided for the first time:

when our feet trampled over the dirtied ground 

& you whispered secrets into my hair. 

Do you remember the moon's shape last October? 

Your eyes were sparkling, I can still remember smelling 

your face as my fingers trailed along the seam of your lips.

The ring you gave me that night used to suckle the fat 

out of my fingers, like I used to do with my Mama's breasts

but now it glides along the pole of my finger

as I slip off each layer of my skin, tantalizing you as 

I crawl closer & closer to the rocks on your grave. 

Do you remember the softness of my lips? 

I'll kiss you till the cold of the cemetery turns my teeth purple.