For H.P. Lovecraft
(And Caitlín R. Kiernan)
Under the gallows
you open a hanged man up like a book
for practice—
teach by doing.
Call the cubs forth, even
those halflings cursed
with human faces
and show them:
Here, look here, look.
Madame, Madame;
I know I am not made to dance
to either tune, not with
my light-glazed eyes, my knees
set backwards. Not with
my forefinger longer than its nearest fellow,
black nails with their rim of razor
awaiting just the right
Inquisitor's beckoning.
I give myself away.
I apologize, simply for
existing,
never having chosen
to exist.
Down in the cellar, those faint noises—
my relatives come calling.
Unexpected, yet not
unwelcome.
(I am not as you: True.
And yet, I am still
more as you than either of us
would like to think.)
At least, when the skin is peeled away
we are all flesh, blood, guts—
a red-bone rosary, fit for telling.
Not soundless depth, awful dream,
darkness wave-locked
and waiting.
For when that dream is over—
(and this one, too)—
when cold descends and the sun goes out
we will huddle close
for warmth, amongst the tombs,
our two great cultures reduced
to a tumult of cemeteries.
Awkward, insides steaming,
we will share
a final communion—
meat, as memory.
The only thing left to prove
we ever squatted
on the void's thin skin
together.