By Ash Luetchford
There’s a mound
At the end
Of the garden
There my maiden lies
Where Death delivered
Like a forbidden love letter
Lingering her flesh
Mocking and Featherless
As angel-tongues
A discarded sentiment
Cold and alone
With no more need
Of her skin
Or her heat
Or her heart
In her tomb my maiden
lies, an earthly din
Slumped quietly
Beneath
The shadow stage
Where I left her
There’s a mound
At the end of my garden.