You said you found god that December,

eyes forever meeting a dead man's, crimson half-moons

at your fingertips. You moved close enough to spit

in his face, his red hunter lips parted halfway to receive you.

We can never live long enough

to smooth away the scars; there are soft places in us always,

purple with lost silence, vocal folds scraped away,

black stones falling in a tangled sea of pale voices.

You hold the knife now in your dreams,

and I push at your elbows with hands whiter

than the sheets that crumple around us.

This is our house falling down, burnt sienna

bricks crushing the delicate curve of your jaw.

Blood drops tremble on your eyelashes.

Scarlet sister, I see the streaks forever

down your face.