Let us meet at dusk tonight
under the boughs of an ancient willow
with only a raven and a brown recluse for companions.
Fear not. The spider will not touch us,
unless we should fail in our pact.
The raven will bear witness.
Let us write the stories of our tortured lives,
under the light of twenty jet black tapers,
on sheaves of brittle birch bark,
with ink made from our blood and tears,
and bind them with cords
made from strips of our clothing.
Let us visit our lovers’ houses while they sleep,
and steal their hair from their hairbrushes,
and with a needle made of whale bone,
weave it into our skin in the shapes of their names,
and write goodbye messages with lipstick on their mirrors,
and cut our hair and burn it in their sinks.
Let us get drunk on green absinthe
and scratch each other
with shards from our broken glasses
and lick each other’s tainted blood
off our wrists, our thighs, our tongues
and feed each other the taste of our regrets.
Let us run naked into the wheat field
and smash the stalks with our bloodied feet,
into a message that only the sky will see,
while we collect the dried stalks
and use them to make a bed within our words
with our bundled birch memoirs for pillows.
Let us surround the bed
with our guttering black candles
and lie together hand in hand
under the moonless sky
and count and curse the stars that
once carried our now broken dreams
Let us kick over the candles at midnight
and set ablaze our humble straw bed
and let us make love as our pyre burns
as we burned for those who left us
and let us conceive a child, one perfect soul
who will never become fate’s plaything
Let us be consumed in flame
and as dawn’s first light touches us
and morning’s first breeze lifts our ashes into the air
and carries our souls to oblivion
let us know that tomorrow will never harm us
as yesterday did