Lathrop and the Italian Maids
Shouting shriveling echoes of chaos upon a pulpit,
much like a strumpet roaming the decks of Santo Spirito
where the wasting nuns stand close to the walls awaiting his whisper.

He will unlace
corsets with his teeth, besotted
from the woven waves of a face,
frescoed,
forever in a fainting pose.

He will kiss a shoulder blade
underneath a broken moon,

to be him
is to know
the flesh of love,

emotion,
being a women
embodied.

He will walk the dirt coated cobble stones
with his skeleton as a cloak, hands as daggers
plucking virginal wives, like untested wines.