EMILY

EMILY

those serial killer eyes
that butcher’s smock

dead give aways
told you are a poet
I would have put
good money on
you writing
thus exactly

your writing desk an
abbatoir
where you carve and cure
your fillet steak
cut thick or
thin, made
to exact measure

horrible and gorgeous
how when I read
a line
I can taste
the bloodwould you like your

poetry rare, Sir, or au
tartare

the potatoes, greens,
well these we can give you
done well done
all the way from
crunchy crisp
to
rock hard

sweeter than sweet when
you sing
the soul’s dark song though

solitary in the darkness, none
so intrepid as
to join, let
alone sing along