A Midnight Black As Blood Poem by Kathlene Ann

In your face, splattered here and there, I see my own...
No, not my brows of stiff black hair,
Nor your eyes that shone,
Not your skin, so soft and fair,
Nor my high cheek bone—
No. In your face I see the stillness of a thousand crushed roses, red,
Staring silently into pools of dark desire
That, rippling, reflect my own quite passive ire.

And you, broken, lying underfoot,
Under my foot, have fallen on carpeted floor.
Let me watch you, stand here watching,
Breathing stagnant air that, sitting,
Trapped inside these four walls
Like a boxed skull,
Surrounds you, heavy as a suffocating pillow
Over your dead lips, a stranger to your lungs, which blow
Their final breaths over unfeeling, wine-colored hands—
Such unfeeling, wine-colored hands.

A new coat of red
Paints the nightstand, wooden, by the bed.

And a course carpet, thirsty, slurps drunkenly at your life's liquid,
Which daft unhesitating fingers spilled across this silent space.
Besides my breath, a dead weight hid
Amidst the coursing waves of silence that radiate from your sewn lips,
There is only silence

And a new coat of red
That paints the nightstand, wooden, by the bed.

Sweet... So sweet the taste of crimson love upon my fingers.
Shall I wipe these hands, dyed, just so, upon the sheets
And decorate anew this old bed in which lingers
Your rusted memory?

No. But a new coat of red
Already paints the nightstand, stained, by the bed.