Bedroom Burial Ground

Wet kisses flood mouths, open graves
     Heaven’s clouds and gates can’t contain,
     fishing for victims, thick tongues dig
     in, digging deep the Selves they take,
     tasting cruel fictions buried
     under sweet whispers nobody

     said would hurt like this nobody
     dipping his in me, bleeding graves
     of hollow hearts their ink buried
     oil-like below what flesh contains;
     bones and old ground broken to take
     out my outspoken soul men dig.

Searchlight eyes burn coals cold night digs
     with dirty hands so nobody
     will know if it’s from wells he takes
     his drink, or to Hell he sinks; graves
     memory abandoned contain
     shells of phantoms drowned and buried

     by passion his shovel buried
     as it hit in skulls, taking digs
     at our thoughts and all they contain;
     opinions sought by nobody
     but I spoke up to say, too grave
     to hear, too much for him to take.

In my midnight mind’s back room, take
     a moment, pause where truth’s buried;
     find under his nails filth of graves
     his fears sifted, and once there, dig
     up those floors bored of nobody
     wanting to know what they contain,

     since in the shallow, depth’s contained
     in such quantity that thieves take
     notice, not its wealth nobody
     knew would be found with clues buried
     in a tomb marriage made us dig,
     leaving love turning in its grave.

Look in and see what he buried,
     my husband whose driest spell digs
     from eternity matching graves.