Let me out on a moonlit night
and I’ll dance with the dead.
She pours from her grave
and swathes the shore
and the cast of her steps
leaves no print in the sand
or taint of her ever having been.
I’ll embrace her torment
and tango the fandango in the surf
and polka through moonbeams
with her corpse, feather-light
in my arms. Her tendrils of hair
hanging sparse from the bone
of the dome of her skull...
Limey soil pompadour smell
of mulch; the earth more alive
than I am. Flaps of desiccate flesh
adhere to the contours and craters
of facial formation; the sockets
near empty bar from the rim
which is milky with eye-juice
pooling and curling for the feasting
of maggots and of worms.
Her smile is of bone and the skill
of her dentist low-lit by glistening jaw.
There we waltz through the night
to the deathly music, a symphonic
dirge of her life. Her life, my life,
her direct descendent. So we dance
on the sand in the moonlight.
Her womb has dissolved; her space,
my place where I belonged. Pelvis
to pelvis, breast bone to flesh,
her death-grown nails darkened talons
as she holds me against her once more,
indenting the skin of my shoulder,
while from hers...hangs a tatter of cloth
from her drowned-in dress.
My hand in hers, as cold as the grave,
while hers feels of nothing but fingers.
She lifts a shiny, white knee and her foot
toes flat and fleshlessly spaced, and
we gavotte, as we dance, as we dance,
as we dance.