Sweltering requiem graffiti
The contrast
of chests concaved,

she cannot breath
but for the cluttered requiems,

the euphonious diaphragm,

Iphigenia
the dead daughter
let loose
through my body like
a child throwing a tantrum,

I will not die for you father,

I will not sucker-punch
the graphite, the cold
Styrofoam aftertaste,

the pain
of taking a deep breath,

a gulp
of withdrawal from you.

Your fingers scratch the
center of my back, a lazy
curl of the knuckle,
leave red lines of
graffiti down my spine—

my vertebrae
is a webbed fleur-de-lis,

and the ironic
structure of my
brain putting your fingers
into my mouth,

I am busy swallowing you up,

busy,
still dizzy from you.

Legs apart,
genuflecting,

eyelashes move upward,

another grown daughter,
another incandescent truth -

she sits
via the light of a single
flickering scented candle,

she writes
via the headphones,
pen scribbling
sweltering candy-eyed
angelic dirges,

her lover
is sleeping
soundly

unawares.