The Wolfman's Ex (Poem)

I have been dissected in rooms

without my heart,

broken down,

like meat

made ready for a feast,

quartered and hacked,

butchers seeking choice cuts.

See,

some of these wars,

long fought,

have seen it ripped clean out,

leaving

this empty space between my ribs

where my ghosts tap out a rhythmic melody.

A Ms. Bates,

in perfect step

to this waltz of eviscerated hearts.

One, two, three,

one, two, three,

one.

A lifetime,

a motel,

dressed in pink neon

dusty rooms,

never empty,

but you can only stay

for a single night

House rules, baby.

Because bridges,

once crossed,

must be made into bonfires.

Each name,

each face,

an echo

across a vast expanse,

a divide

wider than the Grand Canyon.

With love it's either all or none.

That's what the sad songs say.

To the martyrs,

to the saints,

to the devils:

forgone,

lost,

displaced,

our love burns,

then burns away,

our lovers always condemned for witchcraft,

loud words falling to gentle terms of surrender,

and

ends

come loose

like knots,

untied.

And in these small expirations,

we admit,

the snuffing of a candle,

all petite and callous deaths.

Each one,

terminal.

Our hearts,

the hallowed dirt of graveyards.

bvk, 2019.