M T C Cronin – MY OWN POMPEII

From Hate of the Dead

The day I saw her
She was a tall slender tower
With projecting balconies
Calling me to prayer

She was in a dressing room
And with red satin
Converted the unfinished facade
Into one of the most imposing
In the ancient city

I took her for coffee
In that dress
And she ordered wine
And sent back the cake
Crystal cherries she said
Would be better off
Being chandeliers

At dusk I was drunk
And her voice was endlessly titillating
It was what happens
When your desires become words

My heart fluttered
Like a palm-leaf house
My hands like day lilies
White and trembling
Waited for her to ask

And then she took me through
Her portal and together
We climbed her stairs
To a magnificent and stately room
Close to her
I felt the heat of fever
Or imagination

She affected me as if by fire
I wanted so much to be warm again
To feel my heart
Expanding into death

But how was I
To know she was made
Of that earthy volcanic stuff
That would one day bury me
In a fine and forever silent ash

 

 

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