Howard Firkin
for Desdemona, lying
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.