Insensate

Insensate
The wound I cannot feel
The ulcer in my dreams
That my Father comes to heal
Somehow that is you now-
In your velvet in your black
In your pale skin that hides
In your black stitched boots
Hiding like trench-foot
Your story in a vault
Drenched in the Danube-Yes!
That’s you, that’s you
Your carrot hair and black cats
Pressed flowers and pots of soup
Your dirty talk and fragileness

I should tell you this-
I have made a witch of you
A witch of you with hollow bones
Without your missing Father’s marrow
Is this what you seek from me?
From me, from me
Some fat, some marrow?

Well suck me dry my brittle flower
Pressed in glass upon glass
Obscene flower, scentless flower
Your organs held exploded
There, suspended
There, I trace my finger there
To feel the lines of you  
The fragile stem of you
Shut behind the pane
Insensate
The wound I cannot feel

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