death poem

i love the faggot girl-
and when one of us gets

laid to rest, the other
strings clear sharp cuts,

a courage pours red deep-
snappy neck, broke viola,

somber melody but- no,
i love the faggot girl, i
do i do.

a tombstone reads a name
more than her carver can
muster strength to chisel
to cut
to make angels
from God’s rib & sin from
a snake biting
cock thrust
throat choke
dust crumble & time wears
stone & bodies erode &
compose