Face to Face
We rise to deliver
our final wounds.
I hang from an inward thread,
frayed by storm. You
sit in your chair, plastered
with brittle privacy.
Neither of us moves to warm the air.
The floor between turns to quicksand
with a thick layer of hovering mosquitoes above.
Anger with a voice too tight to speak
takes the form of ant-like apparitions, covering
our four-corned walls.
It will be done. We will be bone
and nothing else when this is through.
It will not matter,
the scent of our first or final kiss
for the proud demon-martyrs
embracing our ribs,
taking seat on our laps
have all but swallowed us whole,
© 1992 by Allison Grayhurst