Once I was prey for the beast –
Muscular & taciturn with a cigar
clutched between
his puckered lips
and fire racing over his skin.
But now I see
the dull evenings en route.
Parchesi and backgammon
while he contemplates
the curdled look in my eye
and two once-milky thighs.
Remember when you thought
I should tattoo my neck
with characters from Tarot cards?
You favored the Queen of Wands.
The sky’s diminishing fire
illuminates too much
of what is genuine now.
No medals for enduring here.
So I lie down in a blanket
of losses, like a mummy
spinning itself into oblivion.
Do whiskers and nails
grow on a cadaver?
No. It’s just flesh
shrinking from life
in a monotonic function.
