<\/p>\n
The Bloody Key<\/strong><\/p>\n I. II. III. <\/p>\n
\nHe calls it love.\u00a0 She thinks he must
\nknow what love is.\u00a0 She is green and thin
\nand has never encountered love.
\nHe brings her flowers which turn
\nthe air yellow with pollen.
\nHer mirror is masked with gold.
\nHe appears in her doorway.
\nHe sends her letters.\u00a0 Their words
\ndrench her head and shoulders.
\nShe has never known such a rain of words before.<\/p>\n
\nHis tongue grows needles, sewing words
\nto her skin like ribbons.
\nShe bows her head, slowed down
\nby the weight, a spectacle.
\nThese aren’t the words he used
\nin his riverine letters.
\nHe wakes her at night
\nto cover her in these words
\nand her mirror is masked by
\nribbons which rustle and whisper.<\/p>\n
\nHer limbs have turned to blossom.
\nThey are covered in petals
\nof purple and grey,
\neach as small as a fingertip.
\nHer mouth is a flower, blooming
\nred and white and silent.
\nHe has turned her mirror away.
\nIt looks at the wall.
\nIt has nothing to say.
\nHe hands her a bloody key.<\/p>\n