Your lips the color of my womb
bleed words that take me to the moon.
The look in your eyes set fire to my tomb
while your touch comes to me as a boon.
Bukowski, you say, is your lover,
you claim to be his bread and butter.
Gertrude has your heart in a cover,
your beauty, if shunned, can lead her to a gutter.
Life ‘came a full circle when I first saw your face,
your fire burnt my soul to the depth of my grave.
A Madonna on earth, you weren’t from my race,
had a halo around you, I could see you brave.
Your memories taunt me like something I haven’t got,
How I worship your feet and I can help it not.