Merciel

A ghost, I slither through her entourage,
slide fingers into the seams telescopic eyes unveiled–
tabooed truth among the moles and mimes–and pull:
black shirt ironed with logos of pop punk bands
slip off her shoulders; faded jeans pressed
with handprints of former friends fall, followed
by panties and bra–bare but for her Vans.
Mesmerized by the scenic mountains for millennia,
drawn to the depths of crevices I dreamt to explore
since the day we first met at the church’s cafe,
but still I search for more seams to unstring–
a loose thread dangles from her tongue’s sheathed edge.
Persistence powered by pain pulls until even the flesh
I fantasized about fucking falls to the dirt–beneath
the silk is found neither bone nor muscle nor heart
nor brain–only darkness unnoticed those midnights
I followed her into alleys after worship, but now I see
in the bright hangover light her contours conform
to the bottom of the soles of the boys she follows–
everywhere. Now I see why she spoke so highly
of animal rights when I was her best friend.