This grew out of another great/impossible prompt from the folks at Sunday Scribblings. It's very raw, and unlike my usual need to overpolish and work to death, I actually want to post this one this way. I'm not sure why. I think of all the secrets we carry for others, and I know that some people hold the secrets of many.
You come to me underground
where I hold all your black stones
your prayers in the thick night.
The lovers you shouldn't have kissed
in a churchyard full of secrets
our bodies, where we lay them, full of dreams.
Our lips suck the forbidden fruit
words that want to crawl back,
unspoken, into the caves of our mouths.
The children you couldn't carry
rest between my breasts:
this silence, the labour of my love.
One day I will carry your death
alone at the crossroads
the gun to your head.