It tastes like foetal blood miscarried
through my mouth, an iron, acrid taste.
It smells like wreaths of flowering human waste,
of menses, menopause, of never married.
I roll that name around my mouth and dream,
in love with something ugly, fierce, and true,
addicted to its poison and its sting,
the snake bite pain of sharing not a thing
again with you, of keeping secret from you.
I mouth it in a long, slow, silent scream.
I wish you well: a deep and slimy hollow.
I wish you echoes: ten for every cry.
I wish you all the blackness you can swallow,
and knowledge of your drowning as you die.