This time we’ll come gloved & blind-
folded, we’ll arrive on time.
With bees in our hair,
with an escort of expiring swans.
We’ll appear to out-of-date & out-of-tune
violin music, we’ll lie on our side.
Wearing rotting lotus behind our ears,
musk between our thighs.
This time we’ll be tied down.
We’ll cry out.
We’ll only smoke if surprised
by tragedy’s approach, as it noses closer.
This time we’ll fall in love
with the blood color
of the sunset as we’re walking home
over the bridge that takes us
between here & there.
This time we’ll forget
how ancient Sarmatian lions go on
bearing marble messages for no one
who can understand their sarcophagus language,
forget sloths who climb so slow
they die before mating.
We’ll grow improvident & stop believing
there was ever such a thing
as alone, such a hard
nail in the coffin
Copyright © 2018 Monica Ferrell
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Four Way Books.