I have kissed that damn devil death
full on the lips of my beloved
I sought to revive in vain.
Here was no gentleman
who stepped in to invite one to glide
with him into the ballroom next door.
Here was no blessed rest
but gurgling struggle,
fixed pupils and thick swollen tongue.
It was the reaper
whose scythe cut a bleeding rose
budding into full bloom.
Do not tell me this was God’s will.
This was no god
anyone who’s sane could want.
My God weeps to see flesh destroyed,
father's light snuffed out
and husband's ring returned.
My God wails for sons writhing in agony
at the lash of torture’s mockery
and words of divine despair.
In holy communion I have tasted God,
and now I have tasted Death.
They are enemies bitter.
© 2010, Tess Lockhart. All rights reserved.