Then if I come out of this madness
still able to remember you, listen,
this is what I have to tell you: as a way
to give greater consistency to your interior,
I would like to dig my fingers into
your body which can ingest, when you
are sad, ten times its weight in blood.
And if that is not enough I would again
at sunrise shape your arm to a glacier.
There I would lay my head, incised at
the forehead to induce a church filled
glamorously with prostitutes. Leave
prayers at your feet as a sign I will
eventually be prosecuted for these litanies.
From 100 Love Poems (Earl of Seacliff, 2005)
© John Pule