By Natasha Tabani
Quod fuimus, estis; quod sumus, eritis
That man of bones, again he comes calling -
it's hard to resist those fine-chiselled features,
the voiceless melodies, this gift of lilies
he claims my heart, my hand, and we begin:
we turn and twirl. The iridescent petals fall
spinning slowly, circling in musky air
pale imitations of porcelain - and there goes
my blouse, my skirt, we carry on like this
he’s striding tall: I’m stumbling, falling.
His sunken eyes burn with lurid fire
sweet resonances wrench to faint screaming
and talons, sharp as sickles, scrape back my hair
pale Death, he whispers with sweet kisses, breathless
a promise of soft, unceasing, dreamless sleep…