Murderer’s Songs

Where each drop of blood
struck: lips in the dirt.
And on my chest as I
slept, a mouth appeared:
a nightflower.
Low moans came from it.
I stitched it shut.

My fingers stuck to what
they touched. I escaped
because my face, radiant
axe-blade, kissed the wrist.

Because I lug the invisible
dead, I’m heavy and my steps
bruise the earth.
Ashes when I’m gone; grind
the boneshards to dust.
I don’t want any evidence
against me when I’m dead;
I’ll be what your boot stubs up:
I’ll be the bandage,
I’ll be the road.