Surgery

The love I set forth
With my intention.

Went septic.
Bound in fetid death.

I saw you
The back of your head -- a stretcher on Sunday.

Wheeled past me.

And I started cleaning.

I scrubbed and I sang.

Smudged every window and door with song and salt.

Marital bed, scrubbed away.

Then I went to work.

A bed of rosemary lemon and salt.
A deep breath
Took my love from the chalice I bound it up in. Held the stinking thing in my hand long enough to cut it loose. 

I sang your song to it and laid the whole thing to rest on a picture of Bliss.

Outside then
And set it alight.

When it was time, and we were both ash. The love at the center black with salt and wax-- I doused the whole thing in the sink.

It exploded.
To me, that is a sign.

I packed the wound and bound it back up in gauze and white and black.

I ate lemon and planted the seeds directly from my mouth before burying the shards in the garden. The blood on my hands went on the Shovel. Scrubbed into the dirt.

My cleansing is not completed.
And this is not a gift.
I'll no longer look for you.
Water = death.

I will take the tomb, when the time is right, and bury it in the sky.

I hope the cleaning finds you;
Goodbye.