Courting Death

Death should be a glorious fiend,
an indulgent lover
who cradles your head
and feasts off
the slow twine
of body and soul.
He must court you,
run his long, cool fingers
from temple to spine
and count the days
that climb toward heaven.

He should caress
that cleft
behind your knees,
find the delicate shift
between flesh
and blood -
a music only he can taste,
and knead the supple
and smooth hopes you hold
and turn them into pledges.

He will love you
as richly
as you deserve -
that final lilt
of joy blotting out your breath,
his bleak and sinewed body
covering what lies beneath,
making the light
within your cheeks
a barren vessel
to whet his longing.