St. Peter’s Peter

“Why is it so quiet

what are they hiding?”

—Sylvia Plath, Berk-Plage

________________

This is the graveyard—

The final last-call Abeyance

How the moon’s poultices—

Draw out my poisoned thoughts

Neon-colored bloody guts—

Scooped like sherbet in the dirt

I bury them both down deep—

And I do it smilingly smug

The damp night is silent—

It stretches full of skunk stink

Is it any fucking wonder—

They’re both buried down there?

A pair of rotting lozenges—

Amidst worms and long kisses?

But St. Peter knows, my dear—

The horrible awful truth