The Dance

you’ve finally caught her, across the room, promises of

fairy tale castles and big screen love-

scenes in your eyes—I remember being her, once

in the days before I became a rotting corpse

waiting by the telephone, in the dark,

in our bed, always waiting for you

to come back home.

one last pastel-colored cocktail and she is yours for

ever, or just tonight, whatever you decide her role will be.

she glides through the walls of human flesh

toward you as if summoned, and here,

far away, I know exactly what you are

thinking, lying here, rotting from my hollow places

begging for just one last bite

from your hard, sharp axe,

before you

plow me under.