Drinking Eridanus

We Don't Want Your Scraps, Give Us Your Fire

I should think of happy times like cinnamon

and promises on apple-stained tongues

Bleed me dry on the rocks, this sacred one,

I'm counting my ribs, hungry for touch

My arms are branches barren in winter

Reaching toward an unforgiving sun

the smell of warmth tells me 

What might have been

What could have been

What you have refused me

Glowing master, you cruel, conniving face

of joy, of hate, of all who love you

I am not so fortunate, no,

I am secret just kept well enough for shadows

For solitude

For window panes

For brown leaves on lonely rooftops