Just as hot wax would burn,
for forty-four mornings the sun would rise,
glistening over scalding rivers of urine and blood,
as a dwindling vessel found itself
stuck between waves of boiling
water and concrete, only to drop
anchor on the baby soft skin
of the shore, and crash its bow
into the white, fragile bones of the pier.
For forty-four days, when the sun would sit idle,
the once riveting mountains would sink
into the deepest of valleys, becoming
trapped in the darkness and isolation
of their peaks. And the midnight sky,
full of bouncing, beautiful stars that once
kissed their cheeks goodnight on beds of
silk and honey, would bite at their throat
with fangs of malice and lust.
For forty-four days, their smiling faces became
engrossed between the shuttling wings of
cockroaches, and the soft touch of wool
became the lingering sensation of
bloodsoaked hands
and semen covered lips,
peppering the trenches of scars with
kerosene and vomit.
For forty-four days, an endless candlewick was left
to burn in the windowsill of the womb;
sealing the doors shut with the tips of
needles and bandaids made from cement.
Until finally, on the forty-fourth night
of the forty-fourth day,
when the blood in the water
had run black,
the bones of the pier
had turned to dust,
the depths of the valley
had fallen into abyss, and the rotting
stench of power left the concrete drum,
the sunset.