A Grave Of Us


I read of love
Appearing as ivy, blossoms
Vines sprouting in lungs
Winding between ribs
A riot of burgeoning life
Green shoots, fresh and verdant
Bodies become bright gardens
Rich with ripe fruit.

Yet I cannot help but think
In all this vegetal verse
That something is being ignored
The ivy that clings
Digs in, will break the integrity
Of the walls it climbs
Blind feelers working between the cracks
Will splinter stone just the same
As the ivory beneath your breast.

If love truly does
Make of our flesh a garden
The metaphor leaves me cold
Thinking only of roots feasting
Sucking on marrow
Hungry, questing tendrils
Finding nourishment
In corruption
Making love a grave of us.

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