What Was Done

It was written on his clavicle
in daubs of dying wisteria by
oppressively agile hands.

I was summoned to the theatre,
though I wore only my nightshirt.
His fists are weeping, even now.
I tremble beneath the hidden spikes.
I tremble; he is colder than the night.

They speak of nasturtium and distant
breasts, one arid tongue at a time.
Without the head, the body falls.
What was done here shall have no memory.