Poetess

(after Veronica Franco)

Death is like a word,

just a moment on the lips,

and if the word is rich and sweet, so be it,

and if the word is bitter like rotting fruit, so be it.

Sovereign isle am I,

sweet lagoon of mercy

tilting that cup to your mouth like a prayer.

My lips, having drunk untold pleasures,

having savored such surrender

here in this crystal enclave

where you keep me:

My lips speak the words of creation,

words that roll from my tongue like cherry drops

shining in the dark.

It is said that promiscuity of the mind leads to

promiscuity of the body, and I confess

I fuck divinely those who know

a thing or two.

My lips wrap around my words as I speak them,

and I feel them pass through me like a dying breath

curled around your finger, our swan song:

But such surrender has been mine!

And you have kept me well and pleasured,

so if the word “death” is rich and sweet, so be it,

and if the word “death” is bitter like rotting fruit, so be it:

The words I’ve written myself will outlast it anyway.